


The Only True Goal of the Universe

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blowjobs, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, F/M, Fluff, Get-Together Fic, HP: EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Praise Kink, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Rimming, Slow Burn of Feelings, Trans Draco Malfoy, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, handjobs, lots of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 12:13:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13123500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: It comes up, as most juvenile things do, in a game of Truth or Dare.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [runboyrun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/runboyrun/gifts).



> so, i had this idea forever ago. i finally started writing it, and then it turned out that it was totally, er, checking several boxes for hal. so when me n the squad decided to do a fic exchange, i decided this would be hal's gift. this fic was only supposed to be like, 5k words. it ended up far longer than that, and i dunno how it really happened.
> 
> ANYWAYS, happy holidays hal, i hope you enjoy this fic in its entirety as much as you enjoyed all the teasers i sent you. big thanks to hannah (cathect) for betaing! any remaining mistakes are mine. also, general disclaimer that draco's trans experience is based mostly around those of myself and ppl i know, so it may differ from yours. 
> 
> enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry lends a helping hand.

“Not that it’s _any_ of your business,” Malfoy starts, though he’s never one to back down from a challenge. “But no, MacMillan, I haven’t ever come, hence I don’t have a ‘best shag’ story to tell.”

Even as he says it, Malfoy manages to remain haughty and put-together, but the flush on his cheeks rather undoes all his hard work. All eyes are on him, but he’s far from preening under the attention. In fact, the longer people stare the more he starts to falter. Harry feels a pang of sympathy for him, but also a twinge of amusement, followed by a rush of guilt.

“Oi! Seamus, truth or dare?” Harry shouts suddenly, interrupting Malfoy’s broken up rambling. Everyone whips around to look at Harry, then over to Seamus who’s sprawled messily over Dean’s lap.

Seamus perks up a bit. “Er, dare!”

Dean sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, but Seamus doesn’t seem to notice

Harry hums thoughtfully, even though he’s really just stalling. He’s rubbish at coming up with dares, and even though Malfoy looks relieved Harry really regrets being the one to steal the spotlight. Harry is just about to open his mouth and speak excruciatingly slow to give himself more time when Ron pipes up.

“Dare you to sprint down the corridor starkers!”

That garners hoots and hollers and Seamus is on his feet in an instant. He tugs at his already loose tie and tosses it aside, and makes quick work of unbuttoning his shirt, despite the drunken way he sways where he stands. Dean looks defeated on the floor, and watches his boyfriend strip down to his pants with a fond, if exasperated expression.

Seamus pauses with his hands on the elastic of his underwear. “Have I got to strip down right here, or can I do it in the hall?”

Ron snickers. “We’re going to watch either way,” he says. He stands and pulls Hermione up with him, gesturing grandly to the door. “Maybe go out there if you don’t want to give us a front row seat to your family jewels, yeah?”

Seamus nods and stumbles out of the Room of Requirement, though the door hangs open just an inch. There’s a brief rustling of clothes, then Seamus half-whispers, half-shouts, “ready!”

Ron is first at the door, Hermione tucked beside him although she’s resolutely not looking into the hallway. The other students clamber around the door, too. Harry doesn’t follow, not keen on squeezing himself into an already tight fit. As he sits and sips at his firewhiskey, he notices Draco hasn’t moved either.

The prat is drinking white wine from a long stemmed glass, and looks regal and obnoxious while doing so sitting on the shag carpeting the room decided to provide this evening. Harry slips off the armchair he’s occupied for the past hour and scoots toward the blond cautiously.

“Thanks for that,” Malfoy murmurs around the lip of his glass. “You’d think they’d never heard such a thing before.” He scoffs and shakes his head.

Harry shrugs. “I mean, they probably haven’t. I’ve roomed with enough of them to know they’ve definitely, erm. Y’know.”

Malfoy raises an eyebrow. “Can’t even say the word _come_ , Potter?”

Harry scowls. “Whatever.” He doesn’t move away though. He looks over his shoulder to where the crowd of his peers are still gathered at the door, and he faintly hears the echo of Seamus’ laughter in the hallway. “They’re going to get us all caught.”

Malfoy laughs quietly. “Without a doubt,” he agrees. He drains what’s left of his wine and sets the glass aside. “Is it really that odd?” He wonders, though Harry isn’t sure if the question is directed at him or not. “It isn’t as though I’ve not had the urges, mind you.” He looks over at Harry then, lips pursed unhappily. “I _have_.” He insists.

Harry nods, feeling a bit stricken. Clearly Malfoy’s had more wine than Harry realized, if he’s spilling these secrets.

“It’s just never _worked_.” Malfoy lets out a long, angry sigh. “And it isn’t as though I’m keen to let some stranger paw at me, you know.”

“Er.” Harry takes a drink of his firewhiskey for something to do, and is painfully aware of Malfoy’s eyes on him.

“I’m not saying I want it to be _special_ , but I’m not going to sleep with my best mate just to say I did it. It’s stupid. Such an arbitrary concept, virginity. It’s absurdly sexist, too.” Malfoy refills his wine glass with something darker, and the spiced scent hits Harry even with the slight distance between them. He takes a deep sip and shudders, and the boozy scent as he exhales is even stronger than Harry’s own drink. “It just never works,” he says again.

“What, uh, exactly… What doesn’t work?” Harry asks, trying to will away his blush. He’s trying to be helpful, he tells himself; he and Malfoy aren’t remotely friends, but they are technically in the same house now—the so-called eighth year house—and McGonagall has been preaching unity since the schoolyear began.

Malfoy opens his mouth after a long inhale and is clearly ready to explain what _exactly_ doesn’t work, when the rest of the group comes rushing back with cacophonous laughter. Ron falls beside Harry and Hermione sits close, too. Neither of them comment about Harry sitting beside Malfoy, although Zabini raises an eyebrow.

Dean sits back where he was before and Seamus, red faced and clad in only his pants once more, falls back into his lap. “Alright!” Seamus shouts, belatedly checking to make sure the door is shut before continuing. “Who’s next?!”

 

 

Malfoy sits beside him a week later out on the grounds where Harry’s pretending to study.

“Potter.” He says seriously, expression dark and overcast. “I would kindly appreciate it if you deigned not to mention our little heart to heart the other day. To anyone.”

Harry stares at Malfoy in surprise. “You think I’d go telling people?”

Malfoy fidgets and looks a little ashamed of his assumption, but not entirely apologetic. “Why not?” He fires back. “Perfect chance to make a fool the school’s resident Death Eater, everyone would have a grand laugh I’m sure.”

Harry frowns. “Malfoy, I’m not going to tell anyone. That’s not—that’d be a bloody fucked up thing to do.”

Malfoy watches him, seems to pick him apart with only his gaze. “It would be,” he agrees. “Glad that’s settled.” He starts to stand, already brushing the dirt from his trousers when Harry reaches out and grabs his wrist suddenly. “Potter?”

“I,” Harry looks up at Malfoy’s stormy expression. “I mean, I wouldn’t say it’s typical, but it doesn’t make you a freak.”

“I know that,” Malfoy replies heatedly.

“Right, yeah, of course you do. I just. I’m trying to help, Malfoy.” Harry lets go of his wrist and sits back, putting as much distance as he can between them without really moving. “You’ll, er. You’ll figure it out.”

Malfoy scoffs. “Thanks so much for the encouragement, Potter. I’m sure I’ll have a lovely wank once I’m back in the dorms.”

Harry feels his face heat up, but Malfoy is already stalking off in a huff. Harry watches him go, and can’t help the brief thoughts of that—Malfoy having a wank, a proper one—as they flicker through his head. Once Malfoy has disappeared into the castle again, Harry falls back into the grass with a groan. The last thing he needs, on top of studying and first semester finals and maintaining ‘house unity,’ is fantasies of Malfoy skittering through his thoughts.

 

 

Another week goes by and yet again, the eighth years find themselves in the Room of Requirement. Same as before, there’s inordinate amounts of alcohol, and it’s not long until most everyone is well and truly hammered. Ron and Seamus especially, although that’s nothing new. Harry himself has refrained for the night, sipping on butterbeer instead. Hermione, too, is sticking with water. She looks more frazzled than usual, and any time they cross paths Harry catches her muttering about their upcoming exams.

Malfoy is one of the plush armchairs, yet again holding a glass of white wine in his hand and sipping at it leisurely. Harry watches him watch their peers; Malfoy seems to observe, almost like he’s watching an especially interesting show or habitat at the zoo. Harry supposes it’s not an inaccurate comparison.

Harry eventually makes his way into the second armchair. Malfoy only tilts his glass in a half-arsed toast before returning to his surveying. It’s actually rather companionable, sitting beside Malfoy and not talking. The shouts and laughter of the rest of their classmates makes sufficient noise at it is, and there’s no tense silence that needs to be filled. Even though Harry’s mind has been on fire with thoughts of Malfoy and his wanks—still is, even sitting beside him—amazingly enough, it’s not a bad place to be.

Inevitably, Seamus shouts “truth’r dare!” again before hardly an hour has passed. With surprising coordination and zero objections, everyone gathers into a circle again. Harry spares a glance at Malfoy, who looks a little sour but isn’t protesting. Seamus, bottle of firewhiskey in hand, looks around the group with a humorous, scrutinizing stare.

“Weasley!” He shouts, and Ron startles. “Truth or dare!”

And so it begins.

Ron is dared to run starkers down the hall, just like Seamus did, and is about to go through with it until Hermione puts a stop to it. Ron doesn’t even get as far as tugging off his jeans before she’s spelling them back into place, along with a belt just to keep them up. Ron pouts for a moment, but shrugs, and is promptly kicked out of the game. Hermione gives him a kiss on the cheek as an apology, and the game moves on quickly after that.

Seamus tries again, and when Zabini answers “truth,” Seamus tells him to list off the best kissers in their year. After that, Zabini promptly dares Neville to kiss whoever he fancies most, in that room. Which leads to a polite peck on the cheek for Hannah Abbott, and plenty of shy blushing. Ernie chooses truth when asked, and then hems and haws over answering whether or not he’d prefer to fly on the back of a dragon or kiss the giant squid.

Predictably—at least to Harry, who’s sober and rather invested in the game—Ernie turns his sights on Malfoy almost instantly.

Malfoy doesn’t shrink where he sits, but he recoils slightly. After a brief silence and a deep sip from his glass, Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Out with it, MacMillan, we haven’t got all day.” He downs the rest of his glass and refills it and downs half of it once more.

Ernie hums and taps at his chin and for a split second, Harry wants to hex him. “Alright, alright. Malfoy, why _haven’t_ you ever come?” He asks it so cheerily, so snide, and there are a few scattered titters of laughter around the room.

Malfoy scowls. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business. I wonder if I should feel worried, given your fascination with whether or not I’ve had an orgasm.” He looks Ernie up and down disdainfully. “I’d feel flattered if you weren’t so… well…” Again, he looks Ernie up and down and then shrugs. “I’ll pass.”

Ernie’s face pinches in irritation. “You can’t just pass. You gotta answer something.”

Malfoy’s cheeks are burning a subtle pink and his scowl deepens. “Then ask something that’s not related to my sex life, you prat. Or is that too much for your pea brain to handle? Only have sex on your tiny little mind?”

No one is laughing now, and Harry bristles at the tension that’s settling around them. He opens his mouth to tell Ernie off once and for all, but Malfoy beats him to it.

“You want to know _so_ badly, MacMillan?” He snaps. “Because it just doesn’t fucking _happen_ , alright? I try and nothing happens and I don’t give a buggering fuck if you all think that’s a riot.” He splashes what’s left of his wine in Ernie’s face before standing up and storming to the door. “You’re such a prick,” he throws over his shoulder, before he’s gone.

Harry watches and waits for the tension to burst.

“You were kind of a twat,” Dean supplies quietly, directed at Ernie. There’s a ripple of agreement around the room and Ernie looks suitably shamed. He spells himself dry and tugs awkwardly at the collar of his shirt. “What’s next?” Dean calls out, and Harry slips away as conversation starts to rise again. He steps outside the room and finds Malfoy positively seething in the hallway. He’s pacing back and forth and his face is blotchy and uneven red.

“Malfoy?” Harry starts, hesitant.

He freezes and rounds on Harry. He relaxes minutely when he realizes who followed him, but he’s still blushing and still clearly upset.

“Ernie’s a berk.” Harry says. He shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “Think he’s learned his lesson though.”

Malfoy scoffs. “And all it took was me embarrassing myself in front of my peers, lovely.” His arms are crossed tight over his chest and Harry frowns as he seems to shrink in on himself. “Fucking MacMillan, the pervert.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, feeling a bit useless. “We can kick him out next time, if you want.”

Malfoy smiles slightly. “A nice offer, but I don’t think I’ll be playing again.” He finally drops his arms to his sides and shrugs his shoulders as if shaking off the remaining tension. “I’ll just watch. Or maybe I won’t come at all.” He sighs. “I think I’ll be going back to the commons now.” He turns slowly toward the hall and Harry falls in step with him quickly.

“I think I’ll join you,” Harry explains.

Malfoy only shrugs and stares straight ahead as they walk. When they hit the portrait to the commons, Malfoy gives the password— _capax dei_ —and Harry follows him through. They stop once they’re inside and the portrait has swung shut behind them. Malfoy faces him again, eyebrow raised and looking caught between a tired grin and a mocking sneer.

“Not that your conversational skills are scintillating as always, Potter, but—!”

“I could help you.” Harry says it in a rush, and immediately wants to bolt. He doesn’t. He stays rooted to the spot, faced with Malfoy’s own surprised expression. “If you wanted,” he adds.

“Help me.” Malfoy replies, his tone hollow.

Harry nods.

“With…” Malfoy trails off.

“With, er. The whole. Not working thing.”

“ _Still_ can’t say ‘come,’ Potter?” Malfoy asks. He’s clearly aiming for derision, except he sounds a little short of breath and the pink is back on his cheeks.

“I could make you come,” Harry says, suddenly sure of himself despite having no idea _why_. He takes a brash, confident step towards Malfoy, and then another when it’s clear Malfoy isn’t retreating. “If you wanted,” he adds again.

Malfoy licks his lips. “Okay.” He says quietly. He reaches out and knots a hand in Harry’s shirt and tugs him closer. “Now? While everyone else is gone?” He speaks quietly despite the fact they’re alone, like he’s sharing another secret. And Harry supposes they sort of are. Harry nods and looks toward the staircase that will take them up to their dorms, the back of his neck flushing.

Harry looks back at Malfoy and reaches out to untangle his hand from his shirt. “C’mon,” he says just as softly. He pulls Malfoy towards the stairs, surprised when the blond follows along without resistance. They make it to the top of the stairs, just outside the door to the boy’s dorm, before they stumble to a halt.

“Potter.” Malfoy says. “There’s something… You should know.”

Harry faces Malfoy again but doesn’t let go of his hand. “Er, okay.” He waits, then thinks better of it. “If you tell me this has all been some sort of mad plot, I’ll hex you.”

Malfoy actually laughs and shakes his head. “Merlin’s beard, Potter. No, it’s not _some sort of mad plot_.” He laughs again. “It has to do with me.” He bites his lower lip for a moment. “Perhaps it would be easier if I just showed you?” Malfoy says, almost more to himself than to Harry.

“Malfoy, if you don’t want to do this, we don’t have to.” Harry barrels on before the other can say anything. “If it helps, ever since you told me you were going to have a ‘lovely wank’ the other day, I haven’t really stopped thinking about it.”

Malfoy’s eyes widen to the point of hilarity. Harry doesn’t laugh, though, since he figures that wouldn’t help matters. “Really?” Malfoy asks, breathless once more. “You’ve—about _me_?”

Harry grins back, feeling more at ease. “Yeah, about _you_ , Malfoy.”

Malfoy reaches around Harry to open the door to the dormitory. “Tell me.” He pushes at Harry until he gets the hint and leads the way. “Your bed or mine?”

“Er. Are you prone to taking long walks around the castle?” At Malfoy’s confused, amused stare Harry elaborates. “I tend to not be around as it is, and Ron or any of them don’t worry over it. I don’t know if Zabini would wonder where you’d gone, but…”

Malfoy hums. “My bed, then.” This time instead of pushing Harry along, he tugs until they’re standing at the edge of the black four poster bed. “Should I…” He gestures to the bed.

Harry shrugs. “Do you want to be on top, or?”

Malfoy’s mouth drops open. “I honestly… haven’t a clue.” He admits, sounding as dazed as Harry feels. “Do you have a preference?” Malfoy asks in a way that’s both curious and perfunctory.

Harry shrugs. “Not especially. Why don’t you get in first, I think it’ll be easier that way? If we change our minds, we change our minds.” He toes off his trainers and Malfoy does the same with his polished dress shoes. “We don’t have to, er, undress right now.” Harry adds. “Unless you want to, that would be fine too.”

Malfoy shakes his head with a small grin. “No, this is fine.” He climbs gracefully onto the bed and lays on his back. His hair fans out over the pillow and he watches Harry with heavy-lidded eyes. Harry, with far less grace than Malfoy, gets onto the bed as well and spells the curtains shut behind him. He pins them in place with a simple sticking spell, then for good measure casts a _muffliato_.

When he looks down at Malfoy again, it’s to wide eyes and soft, gasping breaths falling from pink lips. “Er, Malfoy? You okay?”

“Yes.” He says in a shaky tone. “You know wandless, wordless magic?” He asks and the feigned nonchalance in his voice is almost staggering.

Harry nods, although internally he’s considerably pleased. “Yeah, just little things. Comes in handy, in a pinch.”

Malfoy just stares at him.

“There was something you wanted to show me?” Harry mentions gently. His words startle Malfoy into motion, but just as quick his movements freeze.

“To show you I would have to undress.”

“Okay. Would you rather tell me?” Harry tries, only for Malfoy to furrow his brow unhappily. “What if I told you about the sort of thoughts I’ve had, this past week?” Harry tries again, lowering his voice and tilting his head so he’s that much closer to Malfoy.

“That would—yes, let’s. Let’s try that.” Malfoy nods and nearly brains himself against Harry’s chin.

Harry doesn’t move away. “It’s not much, honestly. Just, the thought of you storming up here after talking to me. Stripping down and touching yourself.” Malfoy’s breathing picks up minutely. “Either you just shoving a hand down your trousers because you couldn’t wait, or stripping them off and,” Harry falters to catch his breath. “Just, in this.” He plucks at the slightly wrinkled collar of Malfoy’s white button down.

Malfoy shudders. “Oh.” He whispers. “You really—did you get off?”

Harry barks out a laugh. “Did I get off? Malfoy, I’ve been wanking so much I think my cock might chafe.”

Malfoy snickers this time and hides his blushing laughter against Harry’s shoulder. They shake together as they laugh, and when the mirth finally settles Malfoy leans back and looks up at Harry. “No one has ever told me that before.”

Harry frowns. “Well, it’s not exactly polite conversation. But I find it a bit hard to believe no one’s ever thought of you while they, er. Beat the bishop.”

That sends Malfoy into another fit of laughter, and his expression when he looks up again is softer still. “No, no one has ever told me that. Certainly not in such detail, either.”

Harry grins, and finally realizes his heart is hammering impossibly fast and hard in his chest. “Well, I guess it’s an honor to be the first, then.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes, but the action doesn’t hold the same sort of mockery it has before. “If you’re going to help me out, shouldn’t we kiss?” He asks once again aiming for casual and, while Harry won’t say as much, missing it by a mile or two.

“If you’d like.” Harry says, already teetering forward a bit, unsteady as he lays on his side and looms over Malfoy. Malfoy only nods, barely mouths the words _“I’d like”_ before Harry is sealing their lips together in a kiss. It’s electric from the start, not unlike other first kisses Harry has shared—but also better. It’s softer and sharper at the same time, Harry’s lips are chapped where Malfoy’s are smooth.

Harry pulls back first and huffs a soft laugh when Malfoy chases him a bit. “Okay?”

“For fuck’s sake, Potter, _kiss me_.” Malfoy reaches up and tangles a hand in Harry’s already impossibly mussed hair, and uses the grip to tug him closer. Harry goes easily and slots their mouths together again. This time, he doesn’t keep the kiss chaste. He licks the seam of Malfoy’s lips and slips his tongue against Malfoy’s swiftly. Malfoy moans into the kiss, soft and reserved, but eagerly kisses back.

He’s not shy here, not fumbling or trying to feel his way through it. Malfoy knows how to kiss and Harry feels dizzy each time they come apart and hurry back together. Slowly, the more they kiss, the more they practically melt into the bed. Malfoy lets Harry press him against the sheets and when Harry slides a thigh between Malfoy’s legs he gets a much louder, much more desperate moan.

Harry leans back enough to take stock of the image before him. Malfoy, flushed and panting and hair askew over the pillow. It’s getting knotted up from the gentle movements, and Harry gives into the urge to comb a hand through it. Malfoy shivers at the touch and his hips buck when Harry tugs ever so gently on the blond strands.

Harry grins and does it again, and Malfoy’s hips jump accordingly. He presses his thigh more firmly between Malfoy’s legs so that he can give the man underneath him a touch of friction. Malfoy shudders and reacts instantly; he writhes against Harry’s thigh and every other thrust he lets out a tiny keening noise, almost like he’s trying to hide it.

“Can I hear?” Harry asks as he leans down. “Does it feel good?”

Malfoy whines and his eyes open suddenly. “Yes,” he grits out. “But it’s not enough.” Even so he continues to ride the friction. “That’s why it never works, it’s never enough.”

Harry hums curiously. “Can I touch you?” He asks as he reluctantly lets go of Malfoy’s hair to drop his hand to his belt buckle instead. “You don’t even have to take your trousers off.”

Malfoy hesitates a moment. “Okay.” He says, though the word comes out slow like molasses. “But—this is. This is the, the thing, I thought I should show you. Because even if I don’t disrobe entirely you’re still going to feel it and notice and—!”

Harry kisses the corner of Malfoy’s mouth and shuts him up quick and easy. “Whatever it is, it’s not going to be a problem.”

Malfoy nods and helps Harry to undo his belt, then the button and zip of his slacks. Together they push them down just a bit on Malfoy’s hips so they hang loose on his body, and Harry can slip his hand inside. It takes a little maneuvering, but Harry manages. He slides his hand under Malfoy’s pants and follows the trail of wiry hair under his hand until he hits—well, until he hits what he assumes is what Malfoy wanted to show him.

“Oh.” Harry breathes. “Okay.” He nods, and swallows, and nods again. Carefully, with his gaze trained on Malfoy’s face, he slides the tip of one finger over Malfoy’s swollen skin, just a nub. “What—what do you prefer I call it?” Harry stammers. When Malfoy only blinks owlishly at him, Harry continues with a blush. “I knew a bloke who called it, er, his clit. But I’ve known some to call it a cock, too.”

Malfoy’s eyes look like they’re in danger of bulging out of his skull. “You’ve been with—?”

Harry nods. “Once or twice, over the summer. Nothing serious, but I learned a lot, I think.”

Malfoy’s lower lip trembles, and Harry leans down to kiss it, so suck on the plump skin and soothe the worry away.

“What should I say, Malfoy?” He asks as he starts to move his finger again in slow circles. Malfoy cries out and his knees lock together at the sudden stimulation.

“Cock, dick, whatever,” Malfoy says as his eyes flutter shut again.

Harry grins. “Got it.” He rubs a little harder, this time with two fingers against Malfoy’s cock. He’s picking up in pace and is fast enraptured by the variety of expressions flickering across Malfoy’s face when suddenly, Malfoy shoves at his hand. “Malfoy?”

His chest is heaving and his elegant fingers are curled around Harry’s wrist, halting his movements. “This is what I mean, it doesn’t work.”

“Not enough?” Harry asks, mind already buzzing with ideas.

Malfoy only shakes his head. “It’s—it’s too much.” His blush worsens and a frown mars his previously lusty expression. “I feel… God this is embarrassing, this wasn’t a good idea, Potter.”

Realization dawns on Harry a bit like a bucket as ice. Not quite as jarring, maybe, but enough that Harry leans back a bit. “It’s not embarrassing,” he says firmly. “Haven’t you had a sex-ed class?” Harry asks. He sat through one back just before he ever started at Hogwarts, and he’s well aware there hasn’t been a class offered in his time here.

Malfoy frowns—pouts, more like it. “Clearly there isn’t one here, and purebloods are… particular, about that sort of thing.”

Harry nods and kisses the corner of Malfoy’s mouth again. He hums, pleased, when Malfoy turns his head to the side enough for a chaste and proper kiss. “Do you trust me?” He whispers against Malfoy’s lips.

Malfoy eyes him warily, uncertainty rolling off him in waves. “I suppose,” he answers.

Harry grins. “Brilliant. I know what it feels like is going to happen, alright?” He wants to bring up just how he knows, but figures yet again mentioning previous partners isn’t exactly proper bedroom etiquette. “Just trust me, and don’t overthink it.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes but settles once more against the bedding. He’s clearly as relaxed as he’s going to get for the moment, so Harry takes it as a small victory. He starts to move his fingers again, still in circles and still with a good amount of pressure. Immediately Malfoy gasps and startles at the touch. His grip on Harry’s wrist falls away and he holds the sheets instead, tugging at them until they might rip.

Harry leans down and speaks directly into Malfoy’s ear, softly. “It feels good, doesn’t it? Just let it happen, Malfoy, it’ll be so good.” He tugs as Malfoy’s earlobe with his teeth, then kisses the sensitive skin at the hinge of his jaw. He bites there too, drawing the skin between his teeth to worry it until it’s pinkish red. “Malfoy, will you come for me?”

Malfoy does, so suddenly it startles them both. His knees lock together again and Harry’s hand ends up effectively trapped, not that he’s complaining. Malfoy’s hips grind into his touch and his writhes, moans and gasps and shudders his way through his first orgasm. His eyes are shut tight but his mouth hangs open and a litany of sounds tumble from his lips, so often and wanton that Harry is sure Malfoy doesn’t realize he’s even doing it.

Then, slowly, it ends; Malfoy’s body goes limp against the covers save for his heaving chest as he catches his breath. His eyes open after a few moments and his stares up at Harry in shock.

“Oh,” he whispers. He hiccups on his next inhale and recovers slowly. While he waits, Harry draws his hand from Malfoy’s pants and wipes his fingers on his jeans. “That’s—I didn’t—Merlin’s beard, Potter, you bloody did it.”

Harry laughs. “I think it’s better to say that you did it.” His own prick is painfully hard in his jeans, but he pays it no mind for the moment. “Everything you’d hoped it would be?”

Malfoy actually nods, looking decidedly blissed out. “I think I can see why everyone makes such a fuss about it, if I’m being honest.”

Harry only grins down at Malfoy. He’s rather enamored with the soft expression gracing the blonde’s face. Open, vulnerable, pleased. Harry can’t help but lean in and steal a kiss, which Malfoy quickly returns. He swallows Harry’s surprised, guttural grunt and reaches between them. His knuckles brush over Harry’s erection through the denim. Malfoy sucks in a sharp breath.

“Can I?” He asks curiously. He looks up only to see Harry nod, then he’s undoing Harry’s belt and jeans and unceremoniously shoving his hand into Harry’s boxers. “Bloody hell,” he hisses as his hand curls around the girth of Harry’s cock. He strokes slowly, with a grip that teeters on the edge of too loose. Harry thrusts into the touch and a sharp gasp tears from Malfoy’s throat, one that devolves into a desperate little plea.

“Not gonna last, Malfoy.” Harry tucks his face against his shoulder and breathes heavy against Malfoy’s neck. “Gonna come.”

Malfoy whines again and nods. “Do it, Potter, c’mon.”

Harry groans and gives into the urge to seal his mouth around the skin under his lips and sucks a hickey into Malfoy’s pale, sweat-slick neck. He stifles his moan in the task and bites just hard enough he knows it hurts, and only lets go as he finally starts to come. His hips buck into Malfoy’s hand and his come stains his boxers. Malfoy’s hand doesn’t stop moving and his own breathless moans are loud in Harry’s ear.

“Fuck,” Harry murmurs, kissing the red skin apologetically after his mind clears. He leans back and grins at Malfoy, who hesitantly smiles back. “Good?”

Malfoy nods, and the hand still tangled in Harry’s hair flexes then combs through the unruly strands. “Good,” he agrees weakly. “I suppose I should thank you.” Almost as an afterthought he pulls his hand from Harry’s jeans and makes a sour face at the mess on his fingers. Harry smirks, and in the blink of an eye the mess is gone. Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Show off.”

Harry shrugs. “A bit.” He admits. He looks down at Malfoy and bites his lip. “Er, would you want to do this again?”

Malfoy blinks back and nods slowly. “I—yes. I would, Potter.” He finally drops his hand from Harry’s hair, though he seems especially reluctant to do so.

“Good, that’s. Great.” Harry only beams brighter when Malfoy rolls his eyes. “I think there’s a few more things I can show you.”

The blush that had only just started to fade from Malfoy’s cheeks comes rushing back with a force. He just bites his lip and nods again. “Alright.” He agrees. “I. I look forward to it.”

Harry gives in and kisses Malfoy again, keeps it chaste and pulls back with a parting suck on his lower lip. “I should get back to my bed.”

Malfoy nods and watches, gaze drooping as Harry releases the silencing spell with another wordless, wandless command. They both pause and strain their ears for sounds on the other sides of the curtain and when there are none, Harry releases the sticking charm too. He pulls back the corner of one and peeks out subtly, and then flashes a thumbs-up at Malfoy, only to get another eye roll in return.

“Just, let me know when?” Harry says after he’s tucked himself back into his jeans. He pushes the curtain aside fully and stands beside the bed. “You know me, I’m free pretty much whenever.”

Malfoy nods. He stares after Harry for a moment, then pulls the curtain shut again, effectively closing the conversation. Harry goes back to his own four poster bed across the room and changes quickly into his pajamas. A quick _tempus_ tells him it’s been less than a half hour, which explains why no one is back—the parties don’t usually finish until half three or so, and that’s still an hour off yet.

Harry shuts his own curtains and climbs under the covers. He lays there for a while before wondering why his cheeks hurt—and he realizes he hasn’t stopped grinning since he left Malfoy's bed. He falls asleep before he can ponder it further.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry tries out a few new things, and so does Draco.

“Mate, where’d you go last night?” Ron asks as he practically falls into his seat at the table. Hermione sits across from them both and makes an equally curious noise. “You missed out on everyone taking the piss outta Ernie, it was brilliant.”

Harry laughs and shrugs. “Just didn’t feel like sticking around. Ended up going to bed kind of early, you know.” Harry can’t help but look down the table to where Malfoy sits, and as if drawn Malfoy looks up at the same moment. Harry grins, and Malfoy smirks back. The moment is quick, hardly there, but Harry feels better for it.

The rest of the week passes in a similar manner: him and Malfoy sharing little looks here and there, though they never talk. They don’t talk about what happened but something tells Harry it’s not because they’re avoiding it, or each other. It just doesn’t come up, and there’s never really a moment where they’re alone enough to even think of broaching the subject. Harry doesn’t worry about it, although he can feel the tension building. It makes his palms sweat and his heart race, and when Ron announces Thursday evening the plans for another Room of Requirement party on Saturday, Harry can’t help but whoop—internally—with delight.

In the commons, after Ron makes his announcement, Harry searches the crowd and locks eyes with Malfoy again. They share another grin and smirk, and Harry immediately has a plan.

 

 

“You sure, Harry?” Ron asks at the edge of the portrait. He’s frowning, hand curled around the neck of a firewhiskey bottle. Hermione is waiting out in the corridor, along with Seamus and Dean and tonight, Luna.

“I’m sure,” Harry says. He holds up his sheet of parchment with a shrug. “Surprised Hermione is letting you skip.” He teases.

“I already finished it, mate.” Ron beams, and Hermione’s sigh tells Harry that he mostly copied it off his girlfriend. Ron shrugs sheepishly and finally moves to leave. “Come join us any time, if you want!”

Harry nods and waves his friend off. Once the portrait swings shut again, Harry pushes his parchment and quill aside. He sits up and stretches, then looks around. He tries not to look too eager when he does it, but the soft snickering from the top of the is telling enough. He looks up to see Malfoy leaning against the railing, smirking.

“Very subtle, Potter.” He drawls. “I’m sure they didn’t think it was odd at all.”

Harry rolls his eyes and stands. “What’d you tell Zabini, then?”

“Nothing, because he doesn’t give a rat’s arse what I do.” Malfoy replies simply. He watches Harry climbs the step and by the time Harry is at the top, they’re facing each other, only a few feet away from being toe to toe. “You sure they won’t come back to drag you along?” Malfoy asks with a flickering look toward the portrait.

“Nah. If they do, they won’t try very hard.” Harry takes the few steps forward and cages Malfoy against the banister. “They’ll probably come into the commons, see I’m not there, and give up.” Harry shrugs and his hands find Malfoy’s waist. “We may need to go to the next one, just to avoid suspicion.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes but he grips Harry’s shoulders and pulls him closer. “You think we’ll be doing this again come next week?”

It’s Harry’s turn to smirk this time, and he follows it up with a quick kiss. “I do think so.” He kisses Malfoy again before he can respond. The kiss this time isn’t quick, or chaste; it’s heavy and Harry licks into Malfoy’s mouth eagerly, moaning when Malfoy opens up to him without a second of hesitation. Malfoy whines into it and kisses back for a moment, before pushing at Harry’s chest.

“The railing is digging into my back.” He says unhappily with another shove at Harry’s chest, this time trying to move him in the direction of their dorms. “I think a bed would be much more comfortable.” Malfoy says quietly, voice sultry and just a little short of breath.

Harry nods and peels one of his hands from Malfoy’s hip and takes his hand instead. “You’re right.” He pulls Malfoy along and into the dorms, and heads straight for the blond’s bed, kicking off his trainers and his socks as he goes. Malfoy follows suit and they fall into the bed together. For a long, quiet moment, they just stare at each other.

“Are you going to close the curtains?” Malfoy asks. “Going to show off more of your natural skill?”

Harry rolls his eyes but does; he takes a moment closes the curtains, spells them to stay shut, and casts a silencing spell. He looks back at Malfoy and raises an eyebrow.

Malfoy only sniffs haughtily.

Rather than arguing or rising to the bait, Harry simply leans closer and kisses Malfoy again. He melts into the pillow almost immediately, and practically tugs Harry on top of him. Their bodies slot together swiftly and Harry wastes no time in pressing a knee between Malfoy’s thighs and grinds.

“Good god, Potter,” Malfoy says, trying to sound sour but only manages to moan. He keeps kissing Harry even as he complains, even as he tries so hard not to squirm against Harry’s thigh. “Is that all you’ve got?” He snaps after finally managing to pull away from the kiss.

Harry grins. “Not hardly.” He sits back and goes for Malfoy’s smooth leather belt. It comes undone easily, as do his slacks, and Malfoy lifts his hips obediently so Harry can slide them down. “I want to try something, is that alright?” He asks once Malfoy’s slacks are to his knees. He goes for Malfoy’s briefs, but waits.

“Go ahead,” Malfoy says in a thin tone. He lifts his hips again and Harry drags his briefs down till they hit his slacks. He shivers once he’s exposed, but Harry can’t help but take a moment to stare. Malfoy’s pubes are as light as his hair, and unruly, and nestled in them is his swollen cock, small but impossible to miss. He spreads his legs as wide as he can, tangled in his pants, and looks away as Harry moves closer.

“Tell me if it’s not okay, yeah?” Harry asks once he’s situated between Malfoy’s thighs. “I think you’ll like it, but, just—?”

“Get _on_ with it, Potter!” Malfoy snaps with a blotchy pink staining his cheeks.

Harry shakes his head but finally leans down and wraps his lips around Malfoy’s cock. The skin is hot in his mouth, under his tongue, and he moans at the feeling. He faintly hears Malfoy gasp and it spurs him on. He licks harder with the flat of his tongue and moans again, this time at the taste.

“Oh, fuck, Potter.” Malfoy’s hands find his hair again and tug hard. His chest heaves and when Harry tilts his head to look up, he’s rewarded with the sight of an utterly debauched Malfoy. His blush isn’t blotchy but practically an even sheet over his face of pinkish red. His tie has come undone and hangs loose around his neck, and he’s managed to undo the first few buttons of his shirt, leaving his chest partly exposed.

Harry pulls back to breathe, and grins when Malfoy lets out an indignant whine of loss. “You look good like this, Malfoy.”

“I could say the same for you,” Malfoy bites back immediately, tugging at Harry’s hair again. “But it’s not quite enough.” He adds the last part almost sheepishly, very nearly apologetically.

Harry only smiles back. “It’s alright, there’s more.”

“Oh,” Malfoy breathes. “Okay.” He nods and falls back against the pillows. “Carry on, then.”

“Gladly,” he says before leaning down again. This time as he starts to lave his tongue over Malfoy’s cock, and slides a finger between his thighs and drags his touch along Malfoy’s entrance. “Still okay?” He asks, the words mostly muffled by the blond’s skin. He puts a little pressure into his touch until he catches Malfoy’s shaky nod out the corner of his eye, then he pushes forward more. He slides his finger between Malfoy’s labia and slowly into his vagina. It’s wet and hot and Malfoy tenses for a split second before relaxing, and letting Harry’s finger slide in to the second knuckle.

“Oh!” Malfoy says again, though it’s more of a shout this time than a gasp. He sits up and pushes Harry’s head down as he goes. Harry moves with the motion and smirks against Malfoy’s groin. “Oh, Potter, _fuck_. Come on, come _on_.” He whines, his hips jumping in desperate little circles as though he could possibly get closer to Harry’s mouth.

Hardly one to back down from such a request, Harry keeps at it. He fucks Malfoy with one finger, slow and thorough; he licks fast and hard over Malfoy’s cock, and the contrast has him moaning on every exhale. All Harry can taste and smell and feel is _Malfoy_ , and he’s only a little surprised by how much he enjoys it. He adds a second finger when he faintly makes out a gasping plea from Malfoy, _“fuck, Potter, please, please,”_ and picks up speed too.

Malfoy keeps keening, and even when he inhales it’s a low whistling sound. His hands in Harry’s hair flex rhythmically and his hips jerk erratically, and suddenly he falls back onto the bed and his spine arches like a bow. “Potter!” He shouts suddenly as his thighs close in tighter and keep Harry close. Harry lets out a groan of his own and that tips Malfoy over the edge, and the blond practically screams.

“Bloody hell, Harry!” Malfoy whines as his body goes lax on the bed. His hands loosen in Harry’s hair and his legs fall apart to hang limp around Harry’s shoulders. Malfoy’s chest keeps heaving even after the last aftershocks of his orgasm work through him, and eventually he lifts his head. “Merlin’s beard, your hair is even worse than usual.”

Harry laughs and slowly crawls up Malfoy’s body, dragging his slacks up as he goes to give Malfoy some decency back. “I think that’s almost certainly your fault.”

Malfoy’s hands slide out of Harry’s hair immediately and a guilty flush overtakes the orgasmic one from before.

“I’m teasing, Malfoy. I don’t mind it.” He kisses the dip of Malfoy’s collarbone, then works his way up until he’s nearly lip to lip with Malfoy. Malfoy kisses him first, close mouthed but eager. “Good, then?”

Malfoy groans and rolls his eyes. “You’re insufferable.” He pushes at Harry’s chest, although not very hard so Harry only moves enough to lay beside Malfoy instead of on top of him.

“Just like doing a good job, Malfoy.” Harry grins. “It’s always nice to know my hard work is appreciated.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes again, but there’s a telltale curve of his lips that Harry decides he needs to kiss, right away. He kisses him again, and again, until they’re cut off by identical yawns. Malfoy looks downright offended as their mouths shut, and it sends Harry into a shaking fit of laughter.

“Good god, what are we? Old men?” Malfoy frowns. “You didn’t come yet?” He looks at Harry from under his lashes, and bites his lip. “I could—do you want me—er.”

Harry laughs softly. “I didn’t come, and you could, I wouldn’t mind, but you don’t have to.” Harry kisses the corner of Malfoy’s mouth and smiles.

“Oh, thank god.” Malfoy hides his face against Harry’s neck with a short laugh. “I don’t know if I…”

“It’s alright.” Harry brings a hand between them and slides it into his jeans. “Can I just kiss you? It’s not going to take very long.” Malfoy looks shocked by the request but he nods. Harry leans in and seals their mouths together in a slow and lazy kiss, so different from the quick, short strokes Harry uses on himself. He meant it when he’d said it wouldn’t take long, and when Malfoy’s tongue glides against his, Harry comes abruptly.

Malfoy looks just as startled by it as he did by Harry’s request, and Harry can’t help but think _adorable_ , at the sight. He kisses Malfoy’s parted lips once more, then murmurs _“scourgify”_ and wandlessly cleans up the mess in his jeans.

“Alright there?” Harry asks, waving a hand in front of Malfoy’s dazed eyes. “I did warn you.”

Malfoy nods. “You did,” he agrees faintly. “I can’t—it was _just_ kissing, Potter.”

“Just kissing, right. I just spent a good while with my mouth on you, _listening_ to you, and got to feel you come around fingers. Then I got to _kiss_ you, and better yet, you kissed back. I think I’m perfectly allowed to come so quick.”

Malfoy still looks shocked. “But I’m just…”

Harry kisses him again and Malfoy melts into it, words thrown aside. His arms curl around Harry’s shoulders and they kiss until their lips hurt and their lungs burn. “I should get back to bed.”

Malfoy hums, bites his lip again. “You could stay. Just a little while longer. It’s barely past one.” He looks at Harry expectantly, and after a moment’s delay Harry casts a silent _tempus_ , then nods. “We’ve a while yet.” Malfoy’s arms settle and without thinking, Harry’s hands find Malfoy’s waist.

“Yeah, alright.” He grins at Malfoy. “Just a bit.”

 

Harry wakes to the sound of Neville, Ron, and Zabini barreling into the dorms. He blinks wearily, and his first panicked thought is to make sure the curtains are still drawn and stuck; he lets out a silent sigh of relief when he realizes both are still true. He’s not sure about the silencing charm though, and strains his ears as the other boys get ready for bed.

“She’s going to kick your ass, Weasley.” Zabini says, almost laughing.

Ron makes an agreeable noise, followed by a slightly alarmed noise. He’s definitely drunk, and Harry can hazard a guess as to who ‘she’ might be. He’s sure he’ll hear all about it at breakfast in the morning. “Shame Harry didn’t come, he prob’ly would’ve liked tonight’s game.”

Neville and Malfoy laugh at the same time. Harry looks over to see Malfoy with a hand slapped across his mouth stifling his laughs. When Harry gives him a curious look, Malfoy mouths, _“come,”_ and resumes his snickering. Neville on the other hand has launched into a lecture about the dangers of enchanted darts mixed with a round of ‘would you rather.’ Ron laughs partway through the lecture, and even Zabini chuckles.

Harry can practically hear Neville roll his eyes good-naturedly, followed by the swish of his bed curtains shutting. He thinks Zabini is next, only because there’s the faint sounds of clothes being folded and Ron never folds his clothes, not even with a spell.

“Why was Potter absent?” Zabini drawls.

“Homework.” Ron slurs before thudding onto his bed. “Think he s’lying though.”

“Lying?” Zabini asks, sounding amused. Ron’s response is unintelligible and soon turns into heavy snores. Zabini sighs and Harry hears him cast a mild silencing spell to dull the force of Ron’s snores. “Gryffindors.” He says. There’s another swishing sound, and Harry finally starts to move.

Malfoy stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “Wait,” he insists quietly. Harry stares at Malfoy and does as told, until his ears practically ache with the effort it takes to try and hear a noise that won’t happen. Malfoy apparently deems it safe, too, because he kisses Harry briefly, and murmurs, “goodnight, Potter.” He rolls over without waiting for a response.

Harry smiles again and unsticks the curtains. He opens them slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible, and the first thing he sees is Ron’s curtains closed and Zabini’s left open as he reads. Except that he’s not reading, he’s staring right at Harry with a smirk.

“Oh, bugger.” Harry hisses. Zabini raises an eyebrow. Harry scrambles to think of something to say, and Zabini’s smirk only grows. “Er.”

“Sod off, Blaise.” Malfoy hisses, even though he doesn’t turn around.

Zabini mimes zipping his lips shut and returns to his book, and it’s as though a spell is broken. Harry slides off the bed, grabs his socks and shoes where they sit beside Malfoy’s trunk. He turns around once he’s at his bed, and Zabini isn’t looking at him but Harry can’t shake the feeling of being watched regardless.

He climbs into his own bed and is painfully aware of how cold his sheets are. He doesn’t bother changing clothes and kicks the sheets down to the end. He lays on his back, and out the corner of his eye he catches Zabini side-eyeing him. With a quick though, Harry shuts his own bed curtains and tries to sleep.

_Tries._

 

 

“Bloody hell, mate, you look like shit.” Ron says around a mouthful of bangers and mash. “Homework keep you up?” He asks slowly, and Harry thinks of Ron’s suspicions from the night before.

“Er, yeah.” Harry says groggily as he sits down. “Not really.” He admits. “Just couldn’t sleep.” He reaches out and grabs an apple from the basket to his left and bites into it without really thinking about it. It’s perfunctory, and he chews mechanically and swallows when Hermione kicks his shin under the table. “Just couldn’t sleep,” he says again.

Ron nods along. “Right. You weren’t there when we got back.”

Harry shakes his head. “Took a walk.” He doesn’t miss Hermione and Ron sharing concerned glances, but he’s just so tired he can’t bring himself to do anything about it. “It helped,” he adds. “I think I got back not long after you three. Zabini was still up reading.” It’s not a total lie, and he feels both better and worse for it.

Hermione makes a worried noise in the back of her throat. “Is it nightmares?”

Harry bites back a groan. “No, ‘Mione, it’s not nightmares. Just felt a little restless, took a walk, came back and got to bed kind of late. It’ll be fine, probably won’t even happen tonight.” As he says it, he feels surer of the words, actually confident that they might be the truth instead of just a far-fetched hope.

The words at least quell their frowns, and Hermione nods apparently satisfied. “If it does keep up,” she starts after a moment. “Promise me you’ll go straight to Madame Pomfrey.”

Harry raises his half-eaten apple solemnly. “I promise.”

 

 

“Potter.”

Harry looks up with a jump to see Malfoy standing opposite him at the library table. “Malfoy,” he greets. The blond takes it as permission to sit, which it wasn’t but it’s not as though Harry minds.

“Blaise won’t tell anyone, you know. It isn’t as though he cares.” Malfoy leans over the table and whispers the words to Harry in a rush.

Harry blinks. “Er, great.” He nods, although some tension does finally seep from his shoulders. “Mostly about the him not caring though. I don’t want him to go off shouting about our business, but that wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen. I’d rather not get hexed for shagging his best mate.”

Malfoy pinks and hides his smile in a scowl. “He doesn’t care,” he says again. “He actually said he’s _happy_ for me, of all things.”

“That’s a good friend,” Harry says sagely. “He should be happy for you, getting to come on a semi-regular basis is a nice thing.”

Malfoy’s blush worsens and his breathing catches. “You’re a menace.” He hisses as he sits back. He opens his enormous Potions text and lets it fall open with a loud slam.

“And yet, I’m a menace who’s getting into your pants.”

“For fuck’s sake, Potter, keep your voice down!”

Harry raises his hands in surrender. “It isn’t as though our classmates are pure and chaste, you know.”

“Most of them are dating, I’d say that’s a far sight different than what we have.”

Harry tilts his head from side to side. “Neville is playing the field a bit, he’s having a good time from what I hear.” Malfoy’s mouth drops open as if he’s going to protest, but snaps shut before he actually speaks. “I’m not saying we have to go shouting from the rooftops, but I don’t care for lying.”

Malfoy stares at him for an uncomfortably long time without saying anything. “Fine. If asked, we don’t have to… _deny_ it.” He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “But I’d rather we keep the more _explicit_ details to ourselves.” Malfoy looks up under the fringe of his hair and stares expectantly at Harry.

“Course.” Harry smiles.

Malfoy returns the expression hesitantly. There’s a beat where neither of them say anything, and eventually Malfoy tugs out a few sheets of parchment and a quill. The awkwardness passes, and with another shared glance, they both settle into studying. Well, Harry _tries_ to study, but he’s keenly aware of Malfoy’s presence, and how the tips of their toes keep brushing under the table; he’s painfully aware of how Malfoy’s lips mouth the words as he reads, and the long elegant curl of his fingers around his quill.

Suffice to say, Harry doesn’t get much actual studying done, and Hermione will surely give him an earful when she realizes. But even so, it’s a nice afternoon.

 

 

“You coming, Malfoy?” Harry calls as he laces up his trainers. Malfoy’s sitting on his own bed, legs drawn underneath him and a book in his lap.

Malfoy shakes his head. “Not feeling up to it.”

Zabini rolls his eyes. “You missed the last one.”

“I had— _have_ better things to do.” Malfoy’s gaze flits to Harry, but instead of smiling conspiratorially the blond is practically frowning. Harry tilts his head curiously, but Malfoy returns to his book quickly. “Go on.” He gestures a flippant hand toward the door.

Zabini looks over at Harry and shrugs before leaving the dorms. He leaves the door open just a touch, and his voice drifts back in from the commons. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Weasley, Potter is on his way.” There’s a few other muted murmurs, and a couple people leave if the portrait shutting is anything to go by.

Harry walks over to Malfoy’s bed and unceremoniously plucks the book from his lap. He at least dog-ears the page before setting it aside, but Malfoy still pins him with a dissatisfied look. “Did I do something wrong?” Harry asks as he perches on the bed.

“No.”

“Are you upset that I’m not begging off another party to bugger you?” Harry asks, letting his voice drop in pitch. Malfoy scowls, and Harry has his answer. “You _are_.” Harry grins and leans into the urge to kiss the pout off Malfoy’s lips. “I just thought it’d be odd to skip two weekends in a row. I was planning to make an early escape, and I thought we could come back here.” Harry peppers kisses along Malfoy’s jaw and down his neck.

“I don’t need to tag along for any of that. I could stay in my nice, comfortable bed and read until you get back.”

Harry parts from Malfoy’s neck with a teasing nip. “I’d prefer you come too.” He doesn’t pull away very far, but he does look Malfoy in the eyes. “Just for a bit. You can fake a stomachache and I’ll play the knight in shining armor and escort you back to the commons. How’s that sound?”

Malfoy holds the half-frown a moment longer, but sighs and the tension bleeds out of him. “Fine. _Fine_.” He says without heat. He shoos Harry off the bed so he can climb off as well. He slips his shoes on swiftly, seems to hesitate for a moment before _accio_ -ing a thick jumper from his trunk. He puts that on, barely ruffling his hair in the process, then looks at Harry. “Are we going or not?”

Harry pulls the door open and gestures for Malfoy to go first, then follows quick at his heels. A look over the bannister confirms Harry’s suspicions: Zabini, Ron, and Hermione are all waiting, gathered by the portrait.

“Thought you might try and bail for ‘homework’ again,” Ron hollers. Hermione rolls her eyes but Zabini smirks, eyes focused firmly on Malfoy. “Where’d you get off to last time, Malfoy?”

“I had better things to do,” he repeats. Harry looks at him from the corner of his eyes, but Malfoy isn’t looking back. There’s still a faint flush to his cheeks and his lips are still a little kiss-swollen, so Harry doesn’t mind. “I don’t plan on staying especially long tonight, either.” He warns.

Ron shrugs and starts toward the portrait. Hermione follows after him, then Zabini, then Malfoy, and Harry is last to leave. They walk in an awkward not-quite cluster, but not-quite single-file. Harry tries to stay close to Malfoy, but Malfoy sticks close to Zabini, and it takes them hardly any time at all to reach the Room of Requirement. Malfoy hurries over to the drink table the minute he’s inside, and Harry follows Ron and Hermione instead.

“So.” Ron draws out the word. He leans against a far wall, and Hermione leans beside him. He opens his mouth as though to continue, but Hermione very clearly elbows him into silence. Harry raises an eyebrow, and Hermione shakes her head, so he lets it be.

“You two want anything?” Harry asks with a nod at the drink table.

“None for me mate. Went a little overboard last time, y’know.” Ron says sheepishly.

“No thank you, Harry. You go ahead, though.” Hermione smiles at him and waves him off.

Harry walks over to the drink table to see Malfoy still standing there: a bottle of white wine in one hand, a bottle of Ogden’s Finest in the other. He watches, but Malfoy makes no move to choose one. When people start murmuring about what game they want to play and start to gather in their usual circle, Harry reaches out and takes the Ogden’s from Malfoy.

“Excuse you.” Malfoy says, scowling.

“You were taking too long.” Harry pours himself only a little. He holds the bottle out to Malfoy, and reigns in his surprise when the blond actually takes it. He sets the white wine aside and pours himself a half glass of the whiskey, then raises his glass as though in a cheer. Harry looks over at their classmates as he sips his drink, and his heart skips a beat. The circle is tight, and one of the usual armchairs is occupied by Ron and Hermione, squeezed together. The only other free seat, unless they want to sit at the edges of the circle, is the other armchair.

Harry looks over at Malfoy, and sees the moment realization dawns on him as well. Malfoy sniffs, a sure sign he’s uncomfortable but unwilling to really let it slow, and starts off at a sedate pace toward the chair. Harry does as well, but his longer strides means he gets to the chair first—which, okay, he kind of did on purpose—and when he sits, Malfoy gives him another nasty look.

“Hurry up, Malfoy, we haven’t got all day!” Seamus shouts, chasing his shout with a shot of firewhiskey. Malfoy rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to retort, but Zabini shoves at his hip and sends him toppling right into Harry’s lap. Once he’s there, he holds his glass up so as not to spill it while he adjusts.

Harry grins and bears it, Malfoy is bony as _fuck_ , and once Malfoy finally stops wriggling Harry secures him in place with a hand around his waist. Malfoy shifts a little more, mostly to be contrary Harry thinks, but sips at his drink demurely once he’s decided he’s comfortable enough. Harry is keenly aware of the eyes on them, and can’t help but be a little grateful when Malfoy waves at them as if to say—

“Get on with it, then.” Malfoy snaps.

The group spurs into motion with one of the Patil twins producing a bottle from nowhere. “So there’s no unfair ganging up,” Dean explains while looking at Ernie. “Since no one can think of a better game than truth or dare, but it gets boring bloody fast when _some people_ can’t just be normal about the whole thing.”

Malfoy looks at Harry and waits until they make eye contact to roll his eyes. Harry stifles his laugh in his drink, but the warmth blooming in his chest isn’t from just the alcohol. “Grand idea, Thomas,” Malfoy drawls.

“I thought so.” Seamus agrees, leaning over to plant a wet, sloppy kiss on Dean’s cheek. “Let’s go!”

Even though the bottle doesn’t take long to complete a spin, it still sets an entirely different pace from the rapid-fire popcorning from person to person that they’ve done in the past. It’s mellower than the other times too, even as the group at large consumes more and more alcohol—save still for Ron and Hermione.

The longer it goes on and the longer he drinks, the more Malfoy practically melts against Harry. The bottle keeps missing them, which Harry supposes is a good thing since it would be impossible to tell if the bottle landed on Malfoy or Harry, and that helps with Malfoy’s mood as well. By the time the bottle finally lands to point directly at Harry’s right foot, Malfoy is almost dozing, whiskey not quite empty, and his head is propped against Harry’s.

Seamus grins. “Lookin’ good.” He half-whispers. Malfoy flips him two fingers almost immediately, and Harry has to work hard to not shake with laughter and dislodge his companion.

“Alright, Potter,” Zabini announces, having been the last victim of the bottle. “Truth or dare?” He asks, sounding absolutely bored despite the devious smirk on his face.

Harry is reluctant to move Malfoy, so he replies swiftly. “Truth.”

Blaise’s smirk only deepens. “How long have you been getting a leg over on my best mate?” He asks. There’s only one or two noises of surprise in the circle, and neither of them come from Ron or Hermione. Harry can’t bring himself to be annoyed, but he feels Malfoy tense in his lap.

Harry looks at Malfoy and raises an eyebrow. Malfoy nods. “About, er—?” Before he can finish his sentence, he’s interrupted.  

“Well obviously not before I asked Malfoy what his best shag was!” Ernie announces. He looks pleased with himself, seemingly oblivious to the glares aimed his way. Out the corner of his eye, Harry watches Hermione’s lips move subtly, and in the blink of an eye Ernie’s lips are sealed shut and he looks shocked enough to cry.

Laughter erupts nearly instantaneously, including Malfoy. He rattles in Harry’s lap and tucks his face against Harry’s neck. His laughs are hot and wet and quiet against Harry’s skin, and Harry finds himself laughing too. He’s grateful when Hermione spells his and Malfoy’s cups away from them; not only does it allow both of them to laugh harder, it lets Harry wrap both arms around Malfoy unabashedly.

Eventually Ernie storms off—only after Hermione promises the spell will wear off on its own in an hour or so—and leaves the group blessedly well-behaved. Once the laughter fades and the door falls shut behind Ernie, Zabini turns his attentions back on Harry.

“Well? You never answered?”

Malfoy sits up a little straighter. He speaks loud and clear, not a trace of a slur in his words although he kind of sways in Harry’s lap. “Harry and I have been buggering for about three weeks now.” He declares before sinking back into his relaxed position. There’s a few scattered gasps of surprise, and the distinct sound of Seamus muttering about _“losing galleons, bloody hell,”_ and absolutely no surprise comes from Ron or Hermione.

Harry shoots them a sideways look, and they just both grin at him.

By the time Harry looks away, the game is back in swing and Hannah is being dared to do the splits (Seamus’ drunken attempt at keeping the game’s momentum going) and doing it easily. He shifts his attention to Malfoy, who’s already staring at him.

“You okay?” Harry murmurs.

Malfoy nods. “I think I’m ready to leave, though.” His cheeks are pink and he licks his lips, and Harry barely suppresses a groan.

“It’ll be obvious if we leave together.” Harry points out.

“Thought you were going to be my knight in shining armor.” Malfoy snaps back, though he’s nearly smiling and there’s no heat in his tone.

“That was before everyone knew we were shagging.”

Malfoy shrugs. “Let them gossip. It’ll give them something good to talk about over morning tea.” With that, Malfoy stands up and stretches. “I’m not feeling well, we’ll be going now.” He’s pinned by a half dozen knowing stares, most smug being Zabini’s, but pays them no mind as he extends a hand to Harry.

Neck burning, Harry takes the proffered hand and lets Malfoy haul him up. They awkwardly sidestep their way out of the circle and towards the door; Harry takes the time to throw another look over his shoulder just in time to see Ron flash him a thumbs-up. Harry leaves chuckling, hand still clutched by Malfoy.

“You didn’t even let me try to act like a gentleman.”

Malfoy pinks. “I just wanted to get out of there.” He replies. He still hasn’t let go of Harry’s hand; the group is loose enough that Harry could pull away if he wanted to. He doesn’t want to. “Have you got something else planned for tonight? Some new, spectacular thing, I mean.”

“Are you saying I’m spectacular in bed?” Harry retorts, laughing when Malfoy shoots him a playful scowl.

“Well? Do you?” Malfoy asks again, cheeks still blushing a deep red.

“I hadn’t thought much about it. I thought we might just do whatever felt, dunno, natural.” Harry shrugs and swings their linked hands between them. He likes the weight of Malfoy’s hand in his, likes the way Malfoy’s lips quirk at the silly gestures and how he doesn’t pull away.

“Isn’t the next step for you to fuck me proper?” Malfoy asks, just barely pitching his voice lower.

Harry trips over his next step and barely recovers in time not to topple over the edge of the moving staircase. Malfoy snickers, feigning politeness with his hand covering his mouth. Harry only grins and shrugs, and once more falls into step with him.

“I suppose you could call that the next step. But I wasn’t sure, er. If that’s something you’d want.” Harry shrugs yet again, and suddenly finds that he can’t look at Malfoy. “I’d like to, but it’s not really my say.”

Malfoy suddenly stops but he doesn’t let go of Harry’s hand and the jarring motion nearly yanks Harry’s arm from his socket. He stops and stumbles over to Malfoy so they’re toe to toe, and looks at the portrait just behind Malfoy as opposed to directly into his eyes.

“Listen to me, Potter, alright?” Malfoy waits for a nod before continuing. “Virginity is a societal, rubbish concept and I don’t give a rat’s fat arse who I lose it to, so long as it feels good. Do you understand?”

Harry nods again.

Satisfied, Malfoy starts walking once more. “That said, if it _had_ to be someone in particular, I’m rather glad it would be you.” Malfoy casts a coy look at Harry that leaves him dumbstruck so long he doesn’t realize they’re back in their dorms until Malfoy is toeing off his dress shoes. Mechanically, still dazed, Harry trips out of his trainers and his mind finally clears when he’s side by side with Malfoy on his bed.

“Not that we have to,” Malfoy is saying. “What we did last time, that was nice—or, anything, really. I’m not picky.” The whiskey still has his tongue loose, clearly, and his blush is still persistent on his cheeks.

“Why don’t you touch yourself?” Harry suggests suddenly. “I can talk you through it,” he adds when he sees a protest forming on Draco’s lips. “I’ll talk you through it.” He says with more conviction.

Malfoy hesitates, but eventually drops a hand to the front of his trousers. “Yeah, okay,” he replies softly. He gets his belt and trousers undone and shoves a hand beneath the fabric. “I’ve tried it, you know. Tried doing this while thinking about—about you.” He looks away, practically hiding his face in the pillow, but Harry lets him have the modicum of privacy. The way he trails off tells Harry how unsuccessful the endeavors had been. 

“I’ve thought about it, about us.” Harry murmurs. Idly he snaps the curtains shut, makes sure a silencing spell is cast, before continuing. “In the showers, mostly, when I’ve got a spare minute. Once or twice in my bed.”

Malfoy gasps and shivers, and his arm starts to work in slow, careful circles.

“I’ve thought about eating you out again, I rather enjoyed that.”

“I—I have too.” Malfoy gasps out as his hips start to work in tandem with his hand. “But, I’d like to.” He swallows nervously and Harry presses a kiss to his cheek as encouragement. “I’d like to suck you off.” His hand moves a little faster and his breathing picks up pace to match. “If that would be alright.”

Harry groans and raises a hand to tangle in Malfoy’s hair. “I’d like that,” he agrees. “I’ve thought about that too. Guiding you through it, being the first to feel you.” He closes his eyes for a moment and his prick twitches in his jeans. He moans again and opens his eyes to find Malfoy looking right at him, intently. “How does it feel?”

“Better.” Malfoy admits. His shirt is sticking to his body with the sweat beading on him, and the scent of his arousal is so strong Harry can smell it even from where he lays. “I could—maybe—just a little more.” He pleads.

“Want me to tell you how I’ve fantasized about this for ages, but didn’t think you’d want the same? How I’ve thought about fucking your sweet arse until you can’t walk and having you do the same to me.” He kisses Malfoy soundly, a reassurance as much a tease. “It’s so much better than I fantasized. I could never dream up something like this.” He takes a moment to look down at Malfoy’s furiously quick hand and adds. “Press a little harder, you’re so close, Malfoy. Just let go, you know it’ll feel so good.” He traces the shell of Malfoy’s ear with the tip of his tongue and that’s all it takes.

Malfoy’s breathing catches and he shudders. His hand moves faster and erratically, and his hips still on a forceful thrust forward into his hand. He rocks with the force of his orgasm, until finally he stills and lets out a soft whine. His arm goes lax and he grins dopily at Harry. He catches his breathing quicker than any of the other times, and Harry can’t help but take some pride in his ability to leave the blond absolutely breathless.

“Thanks,” he says, then furrows his brow as though he realizes how inane it is to say. He shakes his head and shakes off the last tendrils of his hazy orgasm and finally draws his hand from his trousers. Harry reacts without thinking, and grabs Malfoy’s wrist and brings his fingers to his mouth.

He sucks them clean quickly, pointer and middle finger, before letting Malfoy’s hand drop to the bed covers.

“Bloody hell,” Malfoy mutters, sound equal parts angry and aroused. As his hand drops and curls into the covers, his knuckles graze Harry’s own erection, and Malfoy’s eyes light up. “Can I?” He asks, suddenly eager.

Harry’s eyes widen. “Now?”

Malfoy nods. “If you’d like.”

Harry groans. “If I’d _like_? I’d be downright mental not to say yes.”

Malfoy beams and sits up. Harry sinks onto his back and undoes his jeans. Malfoy drags them down by the belt loops until they hit Harry’s knees, a similar picture to Malfoy the other day. Malfoy shimmies down the bed and though it’s an awkward angle, soon he’s level with Harry’s groin. Harry groans as his prick swings free. Malfoy’s pupils dilate and his eyes widen to the point of hilarity, and Harry would laugh if not for the contrast of his flushed cock nearly bumping against Malfoy’s pink and pale face.

“Fuck.” Harry moans.

Malfoy grins, bright and wide and delighted. He opens his mouth and his lips curl over his teeth and at first, he only sucks at the spongey head. He moans around it and slowly drops down a little more, then a little more, before he stops and his brow furrows. Harry reaches out and smooths away the crease with his thumb.

“You’re doing so good,” he assures, barely able to catch his breath enough to get the words out. “That’s perfect.”

Confidence clearly renewed, Malfoy starts to bob his head. He can’t take all of Harry in his mouth but that hardly matters. He sucks with enthusiasm, excited noises escaping and vibrating around Harry’s cock. He rears back to inhale every few moments and Harry admires his spit-slick flushed lips for the split second he has before Malfoy eagerly returns to his task.

Harry groans but can’t bear to let his head drop back onto the pillows, no matter how much the strain hurts his neck. Malfoy looks _perfect_ where he is; his hair is a debauched mess and his eyes keep fluttering shut. His lips are crimson as are his cheeks, and he’s breathing so loud but moaning too. Harry’s hips keep bouncing and he’s barely able to hold himself back from fucking into Malfoy’s mouth.

He pulls back, panting. “Are you close?” He asks, voice rough and spit pooling at the corners of his lips.

Harry nods frantically. “You’re doing so good,” he says again. He brings his hand to Malfoy’s hair and scrapes his nails over his scalp. It’s meant to be encouraging, and he thinks it is although it also wrings a shiver from Malfoy and a delicate little sigh. “I’m so close, Draco.”

The name slips out without Harry meaning to, but the whine Malfoy—Draco— _he_ lets out is downright sinful and Harry knows beyond a doubt he wants to hear it again. He starts to babble then, slipping in Draco’s name here and there, along with a litany of praises and moans and his hand clenching in blond hair. Draco sucks faster and his tongue works in jerky, unfamiliar movements as he familiarizes himself with Harry’s prick.

“Gonna come,” Harry hisses out. Draco moans and takes him that much deeper, tongue gliding along the underside of the stiff skin. “Draco—fuck, I’m gonna come—!” Draco whines again and Harry realizes he’s not going to pull off and the thought tips him over the edge. He holds Draco’s hair probably to the point of pain and finally gives in to the urge to let his hips buck. Draco inhales sharply but still doesn’t pull away.

Harry loses himself in the wet heat of Draco’s mouth and the soft suction as he starts to swallow Harry’s come, even though his face scrunches up at the taste. As the haze of the orgasm starts to fade, Harry finds himself laughing and sitting up as Draco barely pulls off his cock. He’s still swallowing reflexively when Harry drags him close by the hand in his hair and kisses him, immediately licking into his mouth. He tastes himself on Draco’s tongue and sighs.

They pull apart, breathing heavy.

Draco pants but can’t quite seem to get the words out. Harry just kisses him again, sweetly, until he’s finally pushed away with a soft laugh.

“Thank you,” is what he finally says. “Can’t tell you how many times I’ve tried _that_ ,” he makes a flippant gesture to reference his own previous orgasm, “to have nothing happen. It’s rather disheartening, you know.”

“I bet.” Harry agrees. He reaches up and cups Draco’s cheek. “Happy to be of service.”

Draco smiles back and bites his lip. “I enjoy helping you, as well.”

Harry kisses him again, an unrelenting grin on his lips.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's been dying to try something.

The next day, Harry finds himself bundled up and stuffed into a corner of The Three Broomsticks with Ron and Hermione, each of them nursing a glass of butterbeer. They haven’t spoken much since the morning, when they all agreed a Hogsmeade trip sounded delightful; no one else had wanted to come—not even Draco, although Harry had tried not to let on how much it bothered him—but Harry found it was nice to be sitting with his two best friends again.

“So.” Harry says after an especially long sip. “How’re things?”

Ron snorts into his own glass and Hermione looks fondly exasperated.

“I think we ought to be asking you that, Harry.” She says lightly. “You and Draco…?” She raises an eyebrow expectantly, and Harry finds himself blushing.

“What about it?”

Ron rolls his eyes. “The fact that you’re shagging him, maybe? That’s something to talk about. I mean, me and ‘Mione always kinda thought it might happen, but, y’know.”

Again, Hermione looks fond but tired, and she reaches out to first pat Ron’s shoulder, then Harry’s hand. “I think you two looked rather sweet last night, in the chair.”

Harry’s neck burns at the memory; he’d enjoyed it as well, the feeling of Draco in his lap and the easiness of just sitting together without any complications or expectations. “Er. Thanks?”

Hermione nods. “Are you going to date properly?” She asks bluntly, lips turning up a bit when Ron snorts into his butterbeer yet again.

Harry gapes at her for a long moment. “I hadn’t much thought about it.” Which is mostly true. He’s entertained the thought once or twice, but not in-depth by any means. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind it. He’s not so bad these days.”

Ron laughs outright. “Not so bad is your standard for shagging?”

Harry flushes pink. “Alright, so he’s quite enjoyable to be around. And bloody fit too. Still kind of a git, but not as much.” Harry shrugs and drains the rest of his glass. “We haven’t talked about that much. Just been… busy.”

Ron buries his head against Hermione’s shoulder as he laughs, which Harry figures isn’t really fair since he hasn’t laughed any of the times Ron and Hermione’s sex life has come up in conversation. Hermione shares a look with Harry that seems to say she’s thinking along the same lines as him, but she’s grinning too. Harry awkwardly grins back, and feels as though something crucial has just shifted into place.

 

 

Harry looks up from the textbook in his lap, not like he’d been reading anyway, to see Draco standing over him. The common room is deserted since Harry is one of the rare few eighth years who has a free period during the day—and apparently so does Draco. Despite being a few months into the school year yet, their paths haven’t crossed at all during this free period. That, or Draco’s just skiving off, which isn’t entirely unlikely.

Harry smiles. “Hello.”

Draco hesitantly mirrors the expression. “I thought we might spend time together. I think it’s silly that we’d wait for another party or some such thing to,” he falters, then continues with only a little stumbling over his words. “Be together again.” He promptly sits on the arm of the couch, and Harry puts his book aside without bothering to mark his place. “Unless you’d rather wait.”

Harry answers by swinging his arm around Draco’s waist and tugging him into his lap. “I don’t want to wait,” he says. Draco’s gaze darkens immediately and his lips part. Harry buries his smirk against Draco’s neck and starts to mouth at the already sweat-slicked skin. He tastes the salt, laps at the flavor. He nips, just hard enough for Draco to startle. He squirms in Harry’s lap and the pressure on his cock is almost too much to bear. It’s not even been a full week since he last touched Draco—the party was Saturday, and they’re at Wednesday now—but Harry is eager to do it again.

“What do you want?” Harry murmurs. He slides one hand around to cup Draco’s arse and squeezes, earning a yelp that dissolves into a shudder.

“Anything,” Draco gasps, “anything.”

Harry hums, suddenly a bit overwhelmed with the amount of power in his hands. He palms Draco’s arse again and then smacks him slightly, and the blond takes the hint to stand. Harry rises quickly and crowds Draco’s space and gently pushes him towards the dormitory stairs. They’ve made it halfway up—they would be farther but they keep stopping to kiss and touch each other and press one another against the bannister—when the portrait swings open and other eighth years come tumbling into the commons.

Harry and Draco freeze a respectable foot apart, though they’re both clearly flushed and it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out what’s been happening. Ron and Hermione are by the entrance, along with Zabini and Seamus and Dean. They’re all chattering on, and probably would’ve kept doing so if Seamus hadn’t stumbled just slightly and ended up looking right at Harry and Draco.

His face spreads into a lewd grin. “Oi, lovebirds.” He greets with a taunting wave. “Where ya off to?”

Harry shrugs sheepishly, whereas Draco looks right pissed. Before he can make a snappish remark, Harry cuts him off. “I think you know damn well,” he teases back. He tilts his head at Draco, and the clear laying out of a challenge seems to sooth some of his anger. “Dorms probably aren’t the best place.”

Seamus’ toothy expression widens. “Probably not,” he agrees. “Why don’t you two come down ‘ere, we were gonna play a game of Explodin’ Snap.”

“We’re going to study,” Hermione corrects.

Seamus whispers back, “Exploding Snap,” and behind Hermione’s back Ron holds up the deck of cards.

Harry looks at Draco and nods toward the couch and armchairs they just vacated. “C’mon.” Seamus turns away from them, clearly tired of waiting, and Harry holds out his hand to Draco now that they aren’t being watched so closely. Draco’s eyes widen but he slips his hand into Harry’s with hardly a moment’s hesitation. Harry tugs him back down the stairs and doesn’t let go even once they’re close to the group again; Draco doesn’t let go either, and despite Hermione’s knowing smirk Harry decides not to mention it.

 

 

They don’t actually get a moment alone for another week, after that.

 

Thursday and Friday, they both have classes all day, and they both have quidditch practice; even though they briefly meet in a corner of a corridor and share a few stolen kisses it’s not _really_ what they wanted. They come back to the common room flushed and flustered but manage to make it upstairs without attracting too much attention.

Saturday, they’re both recuperating from the previous two days, and the party that evening ends up held in the commons as opposed to the Room of Requirement. Harry whispers a suggestion of heading to the room themselves, but when Draco so much as inches toward the portrait, Zabini pins him with a look. It ends nicely, though, since they still end up squeezed into one of the armchairs by the fireplace, rather cozy.

Sunday, the common room is yet again filled with their peers, as are the dorms. This time, Draco suggests the room but Ron drags him into wizard’s chess and Harry gets bullied into finishing his Potions essay by Hermione. Their elbows bump every so often, and Harry leans over to suggest moves that Draco entirely ignores—which is really for the best.

Monday and Tuesday pass the same as Thursday and Friday, but _eventually_ , Wednesday rolls around.

By some unspoken agreement, Harry and Draco end up in front of the Room of Requirement, already out of breath and eager. The door unfolds from the wall—a different door than what usually appears for the parties—and Draco hurries in first. The room is simply furnished with a couch and a coffee table; there’s a four-poster bed, not unlike their dorm beds except this one is larger and much better able to fit two blokes.

There’s a small array of food on the coffee table and a bottle of wine with two long-stemmed glasses, all supplied by the elves, he figures. Harry’s sure in the bedside table there’s everything they could need for sex, and idly he wonders if the room might try to create ambiance for them. He hopes not, but figures it’s only partly up to him.

“Harry?” Draco asks as he comes to Harry’s side. He’s smiling, and there’s no sneer or hesitancy in the expression. It’s just sweet and Harry wants to kiss him—so he does. He kisses Draco firmly on the lips, cupping his face with both hands to angle him just how he likes. Draco melts into the kiss and his smile only widens. His hands find Harry’s waist and grip him tight. “Mm,” Draco hums as they pull apart. “This is nice. Far better than the dorms or commons.”

Harry laughs and nods. “Much.” He peppers kisses along Draco’s jawline to his ear, where he nips at the lobe and tugs. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to do to you since last week.” When he raises his head, Draco’s eyes are blown black, a barely-there silver ring around his pupils. He takes that as a yes and moves toward the bed, and Draco goes along with him. They stumble over themselves, trying to walk over to the bed and strip and not let go of each other at the same time.

Eventually they topple onto the bed. The sheets beneath them are far softer than the ones in the dorms, and Draco makes an appreciative sound as he writhes on them. He lays with his hair scattered over the pillows and grins up at Harry.

“What did you want to do?” He asks.

Harry pushes Draco’s knees apart slowly and takes a moment to stare. They’re both starkers and Harry can’t help but appreciate the view—Draco’s entrance slightly slick, and his cock small and flushed and just visible from the mess of dirty blond curls. He reaches out and skirts his fingers down the sight before him; he touches Draco’s cock first, then glides his touch over his labia, and listens to Draco’s shake inhale. Then he moves a little lower and presses lightly against the crack of Draco’s arse.

He stops then, and looks up. Draco’s staring back intently, his breath coming out in short little bursts.

“Okay?” Harry asks.

“Oh, Merlin, _yes_.”

Harry smirks to himself and murmurs a quiet _accio_ with his hand held open. Just as he thought, the bedside table opens and a bottle of lube flies out. It _smacks_ into Harry’s hand, and Draco’s eyes are so wide Harry’s actually a little concerned (and amused). As he uncaps the bottle, he speaks. “You’ll tell me if it’s not good?”

Draco nods. “Wait, though, hold on.” He scrambles for his want out of his robes beside the bed, and Harry faintly hears him cast a quick _scourgify_. Draco shivers as the magic ripples through him, and it takes a moment for Harry to realize what just happened. When Draco lays down again he’s flushed a deeper pink but looks infinitely more relaxed. Harry smiles and brings one slick finger to his arsehole.

Draco’s lips part again, involuntarily, and he whines low in his throat as Harry only smears the lube across the puckered skin. He gets it nice and wet before finally, just barely dipping his fingertip past the muscle. It’s a stretch and for a moment Draco’s body won’t yield to the intrusion. Harry meets Draco gaze, and murmurs _“relax,”_ and to his delight Draco does. Minutely, but enough that Harry sinks into him a little more just and wrings a punched-out moan from Draco.

He looks startled by the sound, and Harry can’t help but preen. “Good?” He says, partly to be sure and partly to be a berk.

Draco knees him in the side and motions him closer. “Come here though, you’re much too far away.”

Harry obliges and slowly moves his finger in and out as he shuffles up the bed. He leans sideways so he can still angle his hand best, but gets close enough to kiss Draco again. Draco’s hands thread themselves into his hair immediately and he sighs happily into the kiss. He relaxes further, and Harry’s finger sinks in down to the knuckle. Draco shivers and rolls his hips experimentally; he fucks himself back on Harry’s finger a few times before nodding.

“Do it,” he urges. He grips Harry’s hair tight and kisses him harder than the past few times. It’s biting and harsh and Harry groans into it, starts thrusting his finger slowly. Every draw out gets a shudder and every push in has Draco whining again. It’s a perfect rhythm, one Harry could listen to for hours, and it’s even better when he slides a second finger in along with the first. It’s a stretch again, and Draco tenses before settling again.

“Still okay?” Harry checks, and Draco bites his lower lip in response. Harry slows down again and gives him time to adjust. He keeps up the sedate pace until Draco rolls his hips again and fucks onto the two digits. Harry starts to move faster, still gentle, but his thrusts are sure and firm and every time he presses in Draco writhes. “There’s something else I want to try,” he murmurs.

Draco nods without thinking about it, and under his breath Harry faintly catches him hissing, _“anything, anything,”_

Harry reluctantly withdraws his fingers and takes Draco by the hip. Harry sits back on the bed to give him space, and Draco gets the hint quickly and turns onto his stomach. Harry wipes his slick fingers on the sheets and then uses both hands to arrange Draco how he needs. He grabs one shoulder and tugs until Draco gets his elbows under him. Then he uses his grip on Draco’s hips to hike his arse higher in the air.

Draco muffles his yelp of surprise in the pillow, but he teeters on his knees and his arse shakes tantalizingly from side to side. Harry licks his lips and kneels behind Draco. With both hands he spreads his arse cheeks and blows a single breath over his hole, and smirks when Draco makes a curiously aroused noise. Harry, unable to keep up the teasing any longer, leans forward and seals his lips over Draco’s hole.

“Oh, _fuck_!” Draco shouts as he jerks forward and back at the same time. “God, what would you have done if I hadn’t cast a cleaning spell?” He asks, already out of breath.

Harry pulls back. “I would’ve cast one myself, you prat.” He says it without heat and quickly returns to the task at hand. He kisses the wrinkled skin of Draco’s hole before poking his tongue out. The muscle gives way and his tongue slides in slowly, and Draco lets out a shrill noise. Harry doesn’t relent, doesn’t stop to check, because over the blood rushing in his ears he can hear Draco panting _“yes”_ absently, and his hips are working back against Harry’s tongue like he can’t get enough.

Harry moans and presses closer, deeper, thrusting his tongue in and out and only _just_ stopping himself from dropping a hand to palm his own cock. Instead, he sits back to give his tongue a rest and speaks instead. He very purposefully keeps his mouth close so the words vibrate against Draco’s intimate, sensitive skin.

“Touch yourself, Draco. Can you do that for me?” There’s a lilt in his voice that almost makes it a question, but they both know it’s really not.

Draco wails at that and scrambles to comply. He balances himself on one elbow and brings his other hand between his thighs. Harry can’t see it, but knows when Draco presses against his cock by the little gasp he lets out.

“You’re so hard, aren’t you? You love this.” It’s also not a question, just a statement. Even so, Draco nods his head furiously. Harry rests his cheek against Draco’s arse and watches the faint line of his shoulder working in quick circles.

“Harry, Harry, _please_.” Draco’s back arches just so, and Harry can’t resist the offering. He kisses his way teasingly across Draco’s arse before trailing down to his hole again. He kisses the hot skin a few times, relishing Draco’s startle every time, and waits until another plea is on the tip of his tongue.

Harry slips his tongue into Draco just as he starts to complain, and what starts off as a rather cross snap of “Harry!” fast turns into a wanton cry of his name instead. Harry fucks his tongue hard and fast and digs his nails into the thickest part of Draco’s arse, just to skim the edge of pain. Draco cries out over and over again and pants with the exertion of working his hips back and forth. His thighs are quivering and Harry can feel him shaking. His arm is moving shorter, quicker, the muscles wound tight with anticipation.

Harry wants to talk to him, bring him to the edge like last time just speaking lowly in Draco’s ears. But this is so good—the feeling, the sounds, the satisfaction. Harry’s tongue is getting sore again but he refuses to relent, and is glad for it when Draco sobs out his name, syllables broken up between heaving moans.

His arm moves unevenly and his hips mimic the motion but Harry rides it out. Draco shudders and falls forward with his shoulders and face pressed against the mattress; one hand is working over his cock and the other has reached past to tease his vagina just barely, and again—and Harry mourns this—he can’t see it but he can hear when Draco finally tips over the edge. His body tenses and his arsehole clenches around Harry’s tongue and he’s barely making sense as he mumbles to himself, deliriously aroused.

Harry pulls back slowly, shushing Draco’s quiet whimper. He helps Draco to shift onto his back again. Draco grins up at him, and Harry admires the blotchy blush covering him from his hairline down to his chest. Harry leans in and kisses him, and Draco returns it eagerly, if a little lazily. No, not lazily; _languidly_ , like a slow-flowing creek. Harry groans into the kiss and finally curls a hand around himself.  

Draco watches him with stricken eyes, panting. He still hasn’t sat up, but Harry’s looming over him and they’re still close enough that the touch is electric. Harry groans and works himself faster, hips jumping into his fist, until Draco lays a hand over his to stop his movements. Harry lets his own hand drop to the side as Draco wraps around him instead. He strokes smoothly, grip perfectly tight, and smears his thumb over the leaking slit at his cockhead.

“Will you fuck me?” Draco asks suddenly, though the way he rushes out the words makes Harry wonder how long he’s been dying to ask. “If I asked?” He adds as his hand speeds up. “I think I would enjoy that.”

Harry’s arms are shaking with the strain of holding himself up over Draco and his thoughts are foggy as Draco’s words morph into images behind Harry’s eyelids. Draco stretched out under him again, legs spread wide; Draco in his lap, bouncing and squirming. He drifts a bit, and the picture of Draco fucking _him_ startles across his thoughts and Harry hisses.

“Would you fuck me?” He counters in a husky tone, forcing the words out around his impending orgasm.

Draco’s hand tightens around him and he moans loud enough Harry thinks the windows—had the room supplied any—would rattle. “Oh, yes,” he gasps back. He falters on Harry’s cock but doesn’t relent. “I never thought you would— _fuck_ , yes I would.”

Harry grins and hides his face against Draco’s neck as he finally starts to come; his cock pulses and come spills out across Draco’s fingers. He flexes and the come slicks the glide as Draco continues to stroke, making wet, obscene sounds until Draco finally slows down, and eventually stops. He pulls his hand make and huffs out a laugh at the sticky noise as he goes. Harry laughs, a little louder, and once he’s got his breath back he murmurs a quick _scourgify_ over them both.

They fall back onto the bed wrapped up in each other, and Harry knows he’s grinning like a fool—but so is Draco, so Harry isn’t all that concerned.

“Potter?”

Harry hums, reluctant to open his eyes.

“Can I call you ‘Harry’ when we aren’t shagging?” Draco asks it softly, unsure. There’s the faintest undercurrent of mockery in his voice, but Harry sees it for the defense tactic it is.

Harry nods. “Course. So long as I can call you ‘Draco.’”

He makes a quiet noise of surprise, but nods as well. “Of course. I think I’d like that.” He lays his hands over Harry’s chest and toys with the dusting of hair there.

They fall silent after that, but it’s not tense. Harry figures that partly because they aren’t in the dorms, aren’t on edge of their roommates coming back at any moment. There’s no lingering sense of needing to separate, get back to their own beds or go down to the commons. Harry revels in the feeling and wraps his arms a little tighter around Draco. He’s gratified when Draco moves closer as well, and his smile seems to seer like a brand against Harry’s shoulder.

The silence goes on a little longer, and as Harry skirts a hand along Draco’s flank over his pectoral and just barely, teasingly over his still pert nipple. It sparks a thought in Harry’s mind that’s been idly nagging at him for a few days.

“Draco,” he tries out the name and decides he rather likes saying it aloud, outside their fooling around. “Can I ask you something?”

Draco hums in response, and Harry takes it as a go-ahead.

“Your chest...” Harry trails off awkwardly; now that he’s started he’s finding it a little hard to navigate through what he wants to say.

Draco picks up for him, though. “I had it done just before the start of sixth year.” His gaze flicks down to his left arm, and it’s then that Harry realizes he can’t see a hint of the tattoo marring his skin. Noticing Harry’s reaction, Draco continues. “I keep it under a glamor, it’s just easier.” He shakes his head, and Harry can practically see him shaking off the darker thoughts. “I actually had it done before I got the Mark. Father always wanted a son, so he was actually accepting about it. Mother has always wanted the best, so she didn’t much mind at all. All in all, it was… painless.”

This time a delicate grin flits across his face. “I’ve been transitioning since I was a child, though. As I said, Father was very eager to have a son, and he encouraged it early on.” Draco smirks, a bit rueful. “Magic makes it infinitely easier than what muggles have to deal with.” He says thoughtfully.

Harry nods. “I’ve heard.”

Draco shrugs and lets out a swooping breath. “I suppose you might be wondering why I haven’t changed the rest?” He doesn’t sneer as he says it, although Harry half expects it. He sounds a little tired, but he’s still got the slightest quirk of a smile on his face.

Harry kisses him before answering. “A bit,” he admits. “But you don’t have to tell me. I rather like you the way you are now, and I think I’ll like you if you _do_ decide to, er. Change.”

Draco laughs, loud and outright. “You in this for the long haul?” He asks through his mirth.

Harry opens his mouth to laugh along with him but stops. “Maybe,” he says instead.

Draco trails off until eventually even his light snickering stops. “Oh.” He says, eyes wide. “Well then.” He pats at Harry’s chest and sweeps along his skin, and Harry thinks it’s an odd, endearing fidgeting manner. He’s looking down instead of at Harry, and the blush is on his cheeks again when it’d only just died down. “I—I suppose that would be alright.”

Harry chortles this time and kisses the slightly gaping surprised look off Draco’s lips. “I’m glad you agree.”

 

 

They don’t talk about it much more than that, and Harry likes it that way. It’s easy, he finds, just being with Draco. Whether ‘being’ means fooling around in their dorms, or getting his arse kicked at wizard’s chess, or studying in the library together. _Being_ with Draco entails lots of things and Harry likes them all. They don’t label it, and they don’t hold hands constantly—only sometimes, such as under the tables and when they’ve got a moment mostly alone.

Harry likes it. It’s nice. It’s simple, which is the most mind-boggling part of it all. They argue sometimes and there’s been a time or two, usually in corridors between classes or even during classes, that they’ve shot off a stray hex or two. Nothing serious of course, just a stinging hex, or a tripping jinx, and one memorable day Harry charmed the tips of Draco’s hair orange and he was livid. Draco got him back later that same day by making all of Harry’s trousers invisible.

All in all, Harry doesn’t know if he’s been this happy in a long while.

 

 

“You’re looking good, mate.” Ron says one morning just shy of a fortnight later. “Happier.”

Harry pauses with his glass of pumpkin juice partway to his mouth. “Uh. Thanks?” He takes a sip and realizes both Ron and Hermione are staring at him intently. “Guys?”

“Oh, sorry Harry.” Hermione says as she smooths out her napkin in her lap. “You just, you _do_ look rather happy.” She smiles at him in her way that means she thinks she knows something she shouldn’t.

Harry shrugs. “It’s been a good year.” He replies plainly.

Hermione makes an understanding noise. “How’s Draco?”

Ron still looks a little betrayed whenever Hermione calls him that, but he does make some sort of agreement around his bite of sausage.

“He’s good,” Harry says. “Bit knackered lately, cause of the exams, but he’s pretty confident he’ll ace his Potions one.” Harry shovels eggs into his mouth quite happily until he realizes his friends are both still staring. “Uh, he’s helping me with mine, as well.”

“That’s lovely, Harry.” Hermione says so earnestly. “Any dates planned?”

Harry very carefully doesn’t choke on his next bite of toast, because he saw her question coming. “I don’t know if he’d really be up for that.”

“Well you’ll never know if you don’t ask, will you?”

Harry recoils, a little taken aback by the force in Hermione’s voice. “I suppose,” he agrees slowly.

Hermione looks like she might say more for a moment, but Ron leans over and whispers something to her and she settles. “Lovely,” she repeats.

Harry tries to share a perplexed look with Ron, but Ron ducks away from his gaze and busies himself with eating as much as he can as fast as he can. Harry looks between his friends curiously, but before long Hermione’s nose is buried in a book and Ron has gone for seconds. Harry shakes his head, mostly to himself, but can’t help but grin too.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thrilling conclusion.

That following Saturday brings yet another party, and this one is especially rambunctious thanks to their exams being over. There’s twice as much firewhiskey as usual, and no wine, and clearly no inhibitions. Harry stumbles in a little late, having got caught up at Hagrid’s, and he’s only a little alarmed to see not a single sober person in sight. Hermione could be considered the closest, but the healthy pink on her cheeks belies the drinks she must’ve already had. Ron’s absolutely pissed and has an arm slung over Seamus’ and Dean’s shoulders. Neither of them look very pleased by the development, but they aren’t shoving him away.

“Potter!” Draco hollers as he stumbles over and throws his arms around Harry’s neck. His glass of whiskey sloshes around and spills down the back of Harry’s shirt. “Oh,” Draco mumbles as he brushes a hand over the wet patch. “Oops.” He pats Harry’s back awkwardly before pulling back a little bit. “You’re _here_.” Draco drawls, more drunk than snotty like he used to be.

“I am,” Harry agrees. “You’re sloshed.”

Draco nods very seriously. “I am,” he mimics. He sways where he stands even as he leans on Harry more and more. “Can I kiss you?” He asks in an overly loud hush that fools no one. Not that he seems to mind, given that he continues in the same voice. “I’d really like to kiss you, Potter.”

“Thought we agreed on first names?” Harry teases.

Draco scowls. “We can’t have the others _knowing_ we’re civil.”

Harry ‘ah’s. “But kissing in front of them won’t let them know?”

Draco considers his words then shakes his head; the thoughts are apparently too much for him to parse through right now. “Whatever, just _kiss_ me.”

Harry obliges. He curls his arms around Draco’s waist and bends him a little into the kiss—dipping him, almost as though in a dance—and Draco kisses back eagerly. He keeps a firm grip on his glass by some miracle but the other one tangles tight in Harry’s hair. Harry ends up breaking the kiss to breathe and laugh and pull Draco back to standing up straight.

They both end up swaying a bit as they come up, and Harry distantly realizes there’s a couple hoots and hollers coming from their friends. Draco flushes and disentangles his hand from Harry’s mussed locks to flip them two fingers. Harry laughs again and guides Draco over to their usual armchair. Harry sits first and Draco falls into his lap without Harry’s help. He gets situated how he likes and Harry lets him, although he does pluck the crystal glass from his hands so Draco doesn’t spill any more.

Once Draco is comfortable, Hermione has brought Harry his own drink—some sort cocktail Luna apparently cooked up, though it’s beyond Harry how she managed to do that. Harry passes the whiskey over to Draco first, but realizes he’s eyeing Harry’s cocktail and with a roll of his eyes, Harry swaps their cups. Draco kisses him for the trouble, after a sip, and Harry licks the taste of bubblegum sweetness out of his mouth.

“Oi!” Seamus shouts. “Get a room!” He falls against Ron as he laughs, and Ron laughs with him although Harry is sure his best friend didn’t even register what was said. “Oh wait, we’ve _got_ a room!” Seamus bursts into howling laughter all over again, and Harry just basks in the warmth. Warmth of his friends, of being teased by his friends, of Draco in his lap. Harry sinks deeper into the chair and lets his thoughts start to swim aimlessly as he sips at the whiskey.

There doesn’t seem to be a game this time, just people volunteering random facts about themselves that definitely aren’t appropriate for polite conversation. Harry listens vaguely but none of the words really register. His drink ends up empty at one point and refills itself, as does Draco’s, and it doesn’t take long before Harry’s on his way to being as drunk as the rest of the group. It’s that, he thinks, that gets his mouth running.

“I think Draco’s the best shag I’ve ever had,” he declares, proud and prompt. The subtle rumble of other voices disappears instantly, and Draco whips around so quick it makes _Harry_ feel dizzy. “Honest.” Harry adds, because he gets the distinct feeling they aren’t believing him. “He’s a quick learner,” he says as well; he’s just quiet enough that only Dean and Zabini and Draco hear him, but that’s enough. Dean splutters and Zabini cackles and it spreads to the rest of the group, even though they didn’t catch what Harry said.

Draco’s still looking at him as other people continuing with the sharing. He’s got one hand playing with the soft, short hairs at the nape of Harry’s neck and the other is lax around his glass. Just as it’s about to tip onto Zabini’s head, the cup vanishes without spilling a drop, and Harry wonders why it didn’t do that when whiskey spilled down his back. Just as quick the thought is gone, since Harry figures it doesn’t matter much.

“Are you serious?” Draco says, truly quiet this time as opposed to his earlier overexaggerated stage-whisper.

Harry frowns and nods. “Of course I am.” He nuzzles at Draco’s cheek, emboldened equally by a lack of caring and the liquor buzzing in his veins. “The sounds you make, the way you grip my prick just right.” He murmurs all this right in Draco’s ear, trying so hard to keep his voice low and unnoticeable. Given no one is staring slack-jawed at them, Harry thinks he’s managing quite well. “The way you taste. You’re so good for me, Draco.”

A whine catches in Draco’s throat and he tugs at the little hairs he was previously just petting. “You’re a berk,” he insists, squirming in Harry’s lap and doing nothing—and everything—for the erection pressing at the zipper of his jeans.

“Oh yeah.” Harry agrees emphatically. “But I think I’m _your_ berk, aren’t I?” He kisses Draco softly. “I’d rather like to be.”

Draco whimpers again and nods. “Yes, alright, yes. That’s—that’s perfect. Perfectly acceptable. Excellent. Lovely.” He pauses to breathe with the clear intent of continuing but Harry kisses the rest of his rambling off his lips. They kiss for several long, quiet moments, practically oblivious to the ruckus around them. When they break apart with a fine string of spit connecting their mouths, Draco sighs. “What would you say to a sobering charm, and perhaps sticking with water for a while?” Draco purrs.

Harry raises his eyebrows. “I’d be fine with that. Can I ask why?”

Draco takes Harry’s cup and goes to drop it—same as before, it vanishes before it can do any damage—then curls his arms around Harry’s shoulders. “I think I’d like you to fuck me tonight, and I don’t care for being sozzled during that.”

Harry grips Draco’s waist hard enough to bruise. “Yeah, alright. Do you wanna do the casting, or should I?”

Draco thinks it over. “I think you’re a sight more sober than me. Best be you.”

Harry nods and slides his hand into the pocket of his jeans. In the plush armchair and with his lap full, it’s a bit of a tight fit. But he gets his hand around the holly wood and murmurs the spell twice over. His own mind clears first, almost to the point of pain. It dissipates after a moment, and even though the room still seems too bright and their friends too loud, Harry’s grateful to have lifted the haze of alcohol. The second charm startles Draco, and his eyes widen with alertness.

Draco kisses him and this time it isn’t as messy or sloppy or wet. They’re both clearheaded and move easily against each other. Harry would be happy to sit like this all day, even keenly aware of their audience, kissing Draco until they’re both desperate for it. One of his favorite sights is Draco’s lips kiss-bitten and ready for more.

They pull back panting, and Harry looks around. No one is watching, which is nothing short of a small miracle. Everyone has split off into various groups, chattering and laughing and having a good time. For a moment, Harry almost wants to stay. Wants to take Draco by the hand and drag him around as if to say _“look! Look at him!”_ But then Draco shifts in his lap and Harry remembers he’s stiff as a board in his jeans, and decides his friends will be around later, or next weekend, or something.

Draco slinks off his lap and strides toward the door without waiting for Harry. Harry scrambles after him and catches Ron’s eye as they leave. Ron flashes him a thumbs-up while Hermione collapses into drunken giggles against his shoulder, and Harry only beams back at them. They slip out without further incident, another miracle, and soon they’re rushing down the hallway. Their footfalls are loud against the floors of the castle, as is their nervous, eager laughter the closer they get to the rooms.

“You sure you wouldn’t rather wait?” Harry asks as they stumble into the commons. “I mean, if we waited, we could use the Room again and—?”

Draco drags him in by cupping his cheeks and kisses him soundly. “I don’t want to wait.” They fumble backwards up the stairs, tripping more than once either over each other or themselves or a stray pet like Trevor. Eventually they make it upstairs and through the dormitory door and they fall into Draco’s bed. Draco lets his wand slip from the subtle holster around his forearm and waves it over the bed.

He shoots Harry a smirk as the bed widens on either side, and elongates just an inch to account for their height. It’s already plush but the sheets turn a little softer, the pillows a little plumper. Draco carefully sets his wand on the bedside table and Harry does the same after he wrangles it out of his jeans pocket. The clumsy gesture has Draco rolling his eyes and tugging Harry on top of him in the same breath. Once they settle, Draco’s legs spread and Harry slotted between them, they kiss again.

Once more, Harry loses himself in it. The taste and feel of Draco’s lips, his tongue. It’s wet and warm and Harry feels a little bad since he knows his lips are impossibly chapped where Draco’s are so, so smooth. The kisses pick up in pace, in fervor, and at the same time their bodies start to move against each other. Harry rolls his hips and groans when his cock grinds against Draco’s groin. Draco counters the movement with his own roll of his hips, and they both hiss into each other’s mouths.

Harry rears back when his lungs are burning but wastes no time; he kisses down Draco’s neck and sucks tiny, red-pink lovebites into the pale skin. He drags his tongue along Draco’s collarbone and kisses the dip of his chest, between his pectorals, unbuttoning Draco’s white button up as he goes. He realizes, idly, that this is something he hasn’t done much of before. He undoes the shirt entirely and pushes it aside to expose the taut, strong lines of Draco’s chest.

Immediately he latches onto a small, pert nipple. He teethes at it gently, just until Draco starts to arch away from the shocks of pleasure-pain. He soothes the ache with a kiss, then moves to do the same to the other side. He takes his time shifting between the two, tugging at them and leaving more hickeys on the skin around the areola. He thinks Draco might tell him to get a move on, hurry up, we haven’t got all day—but he doesn’t.

Draco just lays himself out for the onslaught and moans unabashed at the sensations. As an afterthought, brought on by Draco’s sheer volume, Harry spells the bed curtains shut and casts the usual silencing spell. He’s not expecting anyone to come back, and hopes Ron will stop them if they try, but better safe than sorry.

“Harry,” Draco whines, combing a hand through Harry’s mop of hair. “I’m feeling a touch underdressed.” He says with a shaky grin.

Harry sits back and peels off his jumper first, then the t-shirt underneath; while he’s at it, Draco shrugs out of his button up and sets it aside. All the shirts topple over the edge of the bed and slide along the curtain to the floor, hardly causing a flutter from the strength of the sticking charm.

Harry goes for both their belts next and tosses them away, too. Then he stops, and looks down at Draco who’s looking right back up at him. “What do you want?” He asks as he falls forward carefully, molding himself close to Draco. He kisses over the tender parts of skin he’s already mauled and slowly makes his way back up to Draco’s lips.

“I want you to fuck me,” Draco says, breathless and cross. “I want you to fuck me, Harry, I thought that was abundantly clear.”

Harry laughs against Draco’s mouth before kissing him. It’s chaste compared to the other kisses tonight, and Harry pulls back despite Draco’s best attempts to deepen it.

“I’d like to fuck you.” He agrees. “But first, I think I’d like to get my mouth on you, and make you come. Then I’d like to finger you, and make you come like that, too. Maybe once more, but I haven’t thought of how yet. Then I’ll fuck you. What do you say?”

Draco moans. “Oh, well if you insist.” He’s teasing and breathless and Harry decides he very much _does_ insist. He kisses Draco again, brief, then works his way back down the blond’s body. He blows cool air over each abused nipple, almost an apology, before moving further. He sucks a deep red hickey over Draco’s right-side ribs, and does the same to his left hip; he leaves several small, delicately pink marks in the space in between. Finally, he hits the waistband of Draco’s trousers, and looks up for confirmation before continuing.

Draco nods and lifts his hips to help. Harry pulls the black trousers down and off, and Draco’s pants are quick to follow. Harry can’t resist taking a moment to look, but when a desperate whimper drips from Draco’s lips, Harry all but dives in. He presses his hand along the sensitive skin between arse and thigh, and uses the grip to push Draco’s legs apart. He spreads them easily, and Harry situates himself between them.

He lets his breathing ghost over Draco’s stiff prick and gives in to the urge to finally taste him again. He runs the flat of his tongue over the swollen skin in slow, broad strokes. Each time he comes up for air, he lets out a very deliberate sigh and watches the goosebumps rise on Draco’s thighs. Harry sinks down a little lower and lets one hand drop from Draco’s arse to spread the lips of his labia.

He doesn’t waste time teasing. He runs his tongue between the lips and tastes the scent of Draco’s slick and sweat there. He opens his mouth wider and probes his tongue carefully into Draco. He runs his tongue over Draco’s entrance and dips in at random intervals to keep him on his toes. Each time he licks into Draco he gets a soft, almost pained cry, and Draco is shaking—putty in the palm of Harry’s hand.

Harry drags his tongue up, agonizingly slow, and works it over Draco’s cock again. The fingers holding open Draco’s labia slip between them to finger him; he’s already lax and loose and Harry chases the spot he knows will make Draco see stars. He seals his lips around Draco’s prick and sucks, moans, teases the tip with his tongue until Draco is writhing towards him and away at the same time. He turns his palm up and fucks into Draco faster; he curls his fingers up on every push forward, and he knows he’s found what he’s looking for when Draco’s back arches in a perfect bow.

Harry relentlessly rubs against that spot and moves his tongue faster over Draco’s cock. He can barely hear Draco’s moans over the blood rushing in his ears, but he can feel how turned on Draco is. He’s wet and relaxed and his hips are jumping so eagerly he comes close to bucking Harry off several times.

“Harry,” Draco whines. Straining to look, Harry watches him throw an arm over his eyes as his mouth hangs open. The other is gripping the sheets and pulling at them in time to the rhythm Harry’s set. “Harry, I’m going to come—oh god, oh _fuck_.” Harry doesn’t pull back or tease or draw it out, although he considers the idea briefly and decides to save it for later. He licks and thrusts until Draco’s body hits that familiar tension.

His knees snap together again and trap Harry between his thighs. His hips bounce erratically and Harry rides the waves. He faintly hears his name interspersed with various obscenities and lewd gasps until finally Draco’s left shivering in the aftershocks. Harry means to pull away, he really does, but a thought strikes him and he just can’t let it go. He keeps licking and keeps thrusting, even as Draco makes a confused noise. He’s still aroused and he’s not pushing away, so Harry continues.

He moves quicker and harder and moans against Draco’s cock to wring similar sounds from his already scratchy throat. Harry drinks in Draco’s taste like a man dying of thirst, and even as his wrist aches he keeps curling his fingers just so. Draco starts to whine again quickly, and this time he grips both of Harry’s shoulders, nails biting into his skin. He thrusts against Harry’s mouth and gasps as a second orgasm builds.

When Draco comes again, his body is less tense and his noises are soft, completely unintelligible, and the pleasure crests with a pitchy keen. Draco starts to squirm even though Harry’s mostly stopped his onslaught, but he gets the hint. Harry draws his fingers out slowly, and pulls back from Draco’s cock with a teasing kiss to the oversensitive skin.

He works his way back up Draco’s body and kisses him soundly. They kiss until Draco’s caught his breath again and then his hands start to wander. Draco runs his nails, trimmed clean and short, over Harry’s arms and biceps, up over his shoulders and down in thin, red welts down his back. He drags his touch down Harry’s flanks and over his chest, until he hits Harry’s jeans and undoes them with deft fingertips.

“As fond as I am of the idea of you making me come again, I’d really like you to fuck me now.” Draco rasps. His throat is raw from his moaning, and Harry kisses the pale long lines of his neck in apology.

“I’d like that too,” Harry agrees, very aware of how hard he is as Draco’s hand teases him over his boxers. He shudders as Draco pushes away the rest of his clothes with gentle, calculating hands. Harry maneuvers over Draco awkwardly as he kicks off his jeans and pants in one go, but breathes a sigh of relief as he fits himself back against Draco’s body with no layers separating them.

They take a moment to just breathe—breathe in each other, the moment, the scent of sex that practically overwhelms them with the curtains shut. Harry hides his smile against Draco’s cheek, and feels the blond’s face shift in the same way. Draco slowly wraps his arms across Harry’s shoulders, and tilts his head to bring their lips into another kiss. It’s languid and easy, unassuming, until Harry bucks his hips nearly involuntarily, and smears precome over the jut of Draco’s hip.

“Come on,” Draco urges as he spreads his legs again. “Harry, come on.”

Harry nods eagerly but as he reaches between them to curl his fingers around the base of his cock, he stops. “Do I, er. Need to cast a contraception charm? Or grab a condom? I’ve got some.” He looks over his shoulder in the vague direction of his own bedside table that he can’t currently see. Draco takes him by the chin and guides Harry to look at him again.

“Part of my transition includes birth control,” Draco says softly, simply. “We’re fine.”

Harry swallows, and nods again. “Right.” He strokes himself a few idle times and suppresses a groan. “Are you ready?” He murmurs as he looks between them where they’re nearly, almost joined. Draco follows his gaze and sighs, quiet and reverent and sweet.

“Are you?” Draco counters as he looks up. There’s nervousness in his steely gaze, but no fear. He’s relaxed against the bed and his arms are loose but sure across Harry’s shoulders. “I am,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

Harry looks back down and watches as he pushes forward. His hand on his base keeps him steady and he moves almost excruciatingly slow. He can feel it the moment he slips in and stifles a grunt. He stops once the head is in, and looks to Draco who only spurs him on with a haughty, flustered expression. Even so, Harry still moves delicately, until he’s far enough in that he has to let go of his prick and slide in entirely.

He watches the whole thing and realizes he hasn’t breathed since he started. He lets out the air in a single deep moan, but freezes. Harry looks to Draco again, and waits.

Draco’s brow is furrowed, but not with pain. His lips are parted and slick, and his eyes are fluttering rapidly. He nods after a moment and rolls his hips experimentally. Harry’s cock slides out barely an inch before sliding back in and Draco gasps. His body tightens when Harry pushes in again, but not in revulsion—in pleasure. Draco moves his hips again, and again, and Harry watches, raptured, as Draco takes his pleasure.

Draco’s eyes open suddenly and he grins at Harry. “Come on then,” he goads. “I don’t think I should do all the work.”

Harry matches his expression and tips forward. He digs his elbows into the sheets on either side of Draco’s heads and uses the leverage to thrust in earnest. He still goes slow, slower than his lizard brain would like, but it’s worth it to watch every minute emotion and reaction flicker across Draco’s face. As Harry pulls out, Draco exhales with the movement and his eyes clear; when Harry pushes in again, Draco hiccups over a moan and his hips jump to meet Harry’s. When Harry pulls out until only the tip of his cock is in, and then pushes forward leisurely but forcefully, Draco wails and his nails drag welts across his back again.

“Good?” Harry asks, then kisses the snarky reply off Draco’s lips. “Good for _you_?” He amends.

Draco swallows his remark about Harry’s sexual prowess and answers properly instead. “It’s good,” he agrees. “Very good.” He trips around the words and the little moans that slip out in between. He doesn’t ask Harry to go harder, or speed up, or change a thing. They move together writhing and winding and perfectly content with the easy pace.

Draco’s eyes shut for a moment, and when he opens them there’s something new, intense in his gaze. He doesn’t break eye contact with Harry as he slides an arm down from Harry’s shoulders and brings it between them instead. Mouth hanging open, lower lip plush, hair askew, Draco drops a hand to his cock between them and starts to stroke. He uses two fingers and his knuckles bump against Harry on every push forward.

“Bloody hell,” Draco says with wonder. “Fuck, Potter, _Harry_.” The arm still slung around Harry hauls him closer for a messy kiss. It’s wet and they mostly miss each other’s mouths, but it’s still perfect. Draco gasps into Harry’s mouth and drinks his responding moans. “Are you close?”

“Are you?” Harry counters with a cheeky grin. He is close, for that matter. He’s moving slow to stave off the urge to come, and lets less-than-attractive thoughts pass through his mind to help. Both tactics are only barely keeping his orgasm at bay, but Harry doesn’t think it much matters.

“Yes,” Draco hisses. “A little harder, come on.”

Harry obliges and while his thrusts are measured and rhythmic he pushes forward harder each time. He pulls out as far as he can go and thrusts in with as much strength as he can muster in spite of his impending release. Each time tears a moan from Draco’s throat and his hand moves faster even as Harry fucks into him almost painfully slow. Draco’s shoulder turns and his fingers tense and relax as he works them over his swollen, oversensitive cock.

“Harry, Harry, _Harry_ ,” Draco pants. He throws his head back as he gets closer and pushes into the pillows. He turns and hides his face partly, and Harry admires the flush on his cheeks and the disarray state of his blond locks. “Come on, Harry, come on.” Draco opens one eye, just a barely-there glimpse of silver wrapped around a dilated iris. “Come, Harry.” He says, dropping his voice an octave and chasing it with a lick of his lips.

Harry does and finally speeds up in his movements. He can’t help himself, and he doesn’t really want to, so he gives himself over to the urge to rut into Draco. He fucks harder and faster until he’s grinding into Draco and hardly pulling out at all. He groans against Draco’s neck as his thrusts turn uneven and jaunty. His cock pulses and come spills in spurts, and Harry rides out his orgasm just as Draco tips over the edge for a third time.

It’s weaker, Harry can tell, but is just as stunning to watch. Draco tightens only briefly and his walls clench down on Harry, milking another shudder from him. His legs cling around Harry’s waist but go lax quickly, and he’s only a little louder than before. He’s panting and shivering and his hand is still working over his cock as the last traces of pleasure start to dissipate.

Harry slows down as Draco melts into the bed, and slowly pulls out when Draco gives him a tired nod. Draco winces slightly as Harry pulls out, but doesn’t recoil. He lays there and watches Harry with delighted, half-lidded eyes. He watches as Harry casts a cleaning spell over them both. He stays heavy and sated as Harry maneuvers them both under the covers and as their limbs tangle together.

Harry kisses him softly, and Draco sighs as they pull apart. They lay together, sated, until Draco is the one to finally break the silence.

“It won’t be easy, you know.” He says quietly, not looking at Harry. “Here, it may not be so bad. But after Hogwarts, after this…” He trails off and bites his lip again.

“I know,” Harry replies swiftly.

Draco stares at him expectantly, waiting for him to say more. When Harry only stares back rather than continuing, Draco huffs. “That’s all? You _know_?” He opens his mouth, clearly ready to launch into a rant, and Harry only laughs. Which just makes Draco scowl and glare and Harry only laughs harder. He grips Draco’s hips and squeezes reassuringly, kisses the scowl-turned-pout off his lips sweetly.

“Yeah, that’s all, _I know_.” Harry says after the kiss breaks. “I know, and I’m ready for it—if you are—and I don’t give a buggering fuck if people take issue with it. I know it’s going to be difficult, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to try.” Harry presses his forehead against Draco’s. “I know all of that.”

Draco snorts, but he’s not derisive. He sounds a little nervous, like his heart’s fluttering in his chest, and Harry swears he can feel the rapid thud of it against his bare chest. “You said a lot more than _‘I know.’_ ” He points out, though he finally looks Harry in the eyes again with a coy little grin. “But I think I get the gist.”

Harry beams back and kisses Draco again.

 

 

As they walk into the Great Hall the following morning—a little late in the day, as they had a bit of a lie-in—holding one another’s hands, not a soul seems surprised. None of the teachers, none of the other house tables, and least of all the eighth-year table, though all eyes are turned toward them. Draco leads them towards Harry’s usual spot across from Ron and Hermione. Seamus and Dean are to Harry’s left, and Zabini is on Draco’s right.

No one says anything as they sit, though Zabini is smirking and Seamus looks like he might combust from the strain of _not_ speaking. Dean is grinning same as Hermione: genuinely happy and terribly amused by the turn of events. Ron just nods approvingly and sort-of grins around his bite of bangers and mash. Draco makes a slight face at the uncouthness of the gesture but eventually dissolves into a smile.

This is easy, Harry thinks, even as Ron and Draco quickly get into an argument over quidditch. This is nice, and everything Harry wants. And even knowing that it won’t be the same once they all leave in June, Harry doesn’t feel scared, not of the reactions that await them. He’s nervous, sure, but figures that’s normal. He lets himself lean against Draco as they eat and his chest warms when Draco first shoves him a bit, then leans against him too.

Idly, as he lets the chatter surround him and loses himself in the feel of Draco beside him, he can’t believe he may need to thank Ernie MacMillan’s tendency for being a prat for all of this. He laughs at the thought, and Draco looks over at him curiously. Harry shakes his head, to which Draco rolls his eyes—an exasperated expression that only lasts as long as it takes for Harry to lean over before he kisses Draco again.

“Don’t think I won’t get it out of you later,” Draco warns, though the threat is somewhat lackluster with the dreamy look in his eyes.

Harry snickers. “I know.”


End file.
